
Gass 

Book 






^ • • 


•ji^ 



% i* 

'' * k 4 A >. *> -m^ ' « 




. #\ 





• - ^ -C' , 

S ft 

^ »«p. . ■ -V, 


- 

\ ■*\ 


- "t. 

■'W V* 


r 1 

S. 1^", 


» . 


- S 



♦ ^ 




"> ■ •'• C { 

••> 4? 


>»• >-^1 K 




?' if 


I <. « 


Ni,- 


r-% 






4 « 


• *1 * 





S' 


.^S 


'■ 1 


. f 



, ^ 


♦ ' L 

' Vt ^ “ 

• ♦ 

• L ^ 

^ # 

r • V -* • 

• , »*^ v ■ 

i 

<► ■ \i * 

J . 

. I ■(. »'r‘*.i 

• • 

• 


-/ 

t ^ 

• ! --.v 


': .t' 

il- 

' f- 3 

•. » ' . 

• jj_ 


\r 



■i' 


'• V- * 

*U >."''!?■ 

* ^ ,i ^ • ' 




. r 


* ^ 


;5 f - 

■■ 

jfij 


• * 





/f . 




^1 . ^ 

* *• V “v' 

‘ ^ ••f * 


,• *’ 


J-« 


Ir^ 




:> 


• # ^ 





# * 


> ry .J^ 






• ^ 


i 









• » * 









K^y- 


• ■ .j^.^ 1 

>• 4 ‘ try. • * •. 7 4 


r 




« « « 




/ ^V 







* •» 7 .; r . 1 - 




- ■ v.-w 

• * . V ' ,' ♦-• ■'^ * ■ • I' ’ 

’ >»■ ■•*■» # 


^ J-^j* ' ‘■'' 




■: 



‘ /•-.-' »'> ■, - ■ •* A.*- V •. - . :■ '“T* 









I - 


*f^:.j 


■ — V 




1 ■* 

■-' ■**i»-.* 


-•Si 


0 fl~ 




V ;4 ir:f| 

^ .wTjL^'n 


v% ^ 


• < 


%• • 




» V • 


-•A* >v 

’* ^ t ^ - • 


fc^™w!wyr* li • ^1 . * ' •> • •• 1 .' • ^ • — 

-«"• i'? . T- ’ “ '*' \ “ |> - ' •' ' 'jL*' ’ * '■♦ ' ’*■■• t *k- i ■ •'• J' Ik. ■• ?"'is * 

ii J«:- ^ A ^ : 1 : -^ 


V ’ fc. ^ ■ A < 

. -'*. . 4 . - - ' '. J> • 


« 



'-■‘A- ■ 

.r • " • ‘ » 


’> * ,1 


^•<"’"^V' -*’• 

•* 1 ^ 

■ , > . ' * 

J ' ' a^- 'a' • • •T- / I ^ 

^ 1^-'. !?• -i ....'S .^ \ r £ 



V 


•Vr‘ 




&&• . & 





li 



» 



> 

* • 


<▼ •» 







BREATHLESS WITH HASTE, I WAS YET ABLE TO CALL OUT. 





ANNALS 


OF A 

QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD 


By GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D. 

(iU THOR OF “the SEABOARD PARISH," “ ROBERT FALCONER,’’ “ DAVID ELGlM 
BROD," “alec FORBES,’’ “ PAUL FABER,’’ ETC.. ETC. 



NEW YORK 

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITEP 

TiQ & 121 West 23D St. 


A/ ^ 






^ '^L> o ^ 


O ^ 


•> 

» p 

ft* 

• ' 


ft Cl 
t e 


ft 

er 

ft ft 
ft ft ft 
ft ft 


c 

«i 


ft < 

ft 
ft 6 


ft ft 


ft • 

ftft ft 
ft « 
^ ftft 


ft 

« 

• 

c 

ftc ^ 


ft ft ft 


e « 

ft 

t. ft ft 


1 ft 
o t 

« c c 

ft ft 

ft f 


ft ft 
ft 

f 

ft 

ft 


ft^« 


I 

0 


c 


c ft 9 ft 

‘ ft 


< 

« 


ft ft 
ft ft ft f 


::i 

ft ft 


ft*# 


ft 

ft 


ft ft 


::/i 


ft 

ft 


ft » 
ft 


ft ft 


^ft^ 


ft 

« 

••• 


ft 

ft 


ft 

ft 



I 

« 


^^ ' 
{ 


« 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 

I. DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION, . 

• 


• 


• 

PAGB 

I 

II. MY FIRST SUNDAY AT 

MARSHMALLOWS, 

• 


• 


i8 

III. MY FIRST MONDAY AT 

MARSHMALLOWS, 


• 


• 

25 

IV. THE COFFIN, 

• • 

• 

• 


• 


40 

V. VISITORS FROM THE HALL, , 

• 


• 


• 

54 

VI. OLDCASTLE HALL, 

• • 

• 

• 


• 


68 

VII. THE bishop’s BASIN, 

4 • • 

• 


• 


• 

91 

VIII. WHAT I PREACHED, 

4 • 

• 

• 


• 


127 

IX. THE ORGANIST, 

• • 

• 


• 


• 

135 

X. MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 

• • 

# 

• 


• 


169 

XI. SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON, 

• 


• 


• 

190 

XII. THE AVENUE, 

• • 

• 

1 




233 

XIII. YOUNG WEIR, , 







244 

XIV. MY PUPIL, . 







287 

XV. DR. DUNCAN’s story. 

• • • 

• 


• 


• 

303 

XVI. THE ORGAN, . . 







328 

XVII. THE CHURCH-RATE, 

• • • 

• 


• 


• 

334 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 


PACK 


XVIII. Judy’s news 

XIX. THE INVALID, .... 
XX MOOD AND WILL, . . . . 

XXI. THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR, . 
XXII. THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR, , 


351 

360 

375 

388 

396 


XXIII. THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR, 

XXIV. AN ANGEL UNAWARES, . 

XXV. TWO PARISHIONERS, . 

XXVI. SATAN CAST OUT, . 

XXVII. THE MAN AND THE CHILD, 
XXVIII. OLD MRS. TOMKINS, 

XXIX. CALM AND STORM, 

XXX. A SERMON TO MYSELF, . 

XXXI. A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS, , 
XXXII. THE NEXT THING, , 

XXXHI. OLD ROGERS’s THANKSGIVING, . 
XXXIV. tom’s story. 


412 

425 

434 

447 

464 

477 

496 

509 

530 

544 

558 

568 


ANNALS OF 


A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 



CHAPTER 1 

DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 

|EFORE I begin to tell you some of the things 
I have seen and heard, in both of which I 
have had to take a share, now from the com- 
pulsion of my office, now from the leading 
of my own heart, and now from that destiny which, in- 
cluding both, so often throws the man who supposed 
himself a mere on-looker, into the very vortex of events — 
that destiny which took form to the old pagans as a gray 
mist high beyond the heads of their gods, but to us is 
known as an infinite love, revealed in the mystery of 
man — I say before I begin, it is fitting that, in the ab- 
sence of a common friend to do that office for me, I 
should introduce myself to your acquaintance, and I 
hope coming friendship. Nor can there be any impro- 
priety in my telling you about myself, seeing I remain 


2 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


concealed behind my own words. You can never look 
me in the eyes, though you may look me in the soul. 
You may find me out, find my faults, my vanities, my 
sins, but you will not see me, at least in this world. To 
you I am but a voice of revealing, not a form of vision ; 
therefore I am bold behind the mask, to speak to you 
heart to heait j bold, I say, just so much the more that 
I do not speak to you face to face. And when we meet 
in heaven — well, there I know there is no hiding ; there, 
there is no reason for hiding anything ; there, the whole 
desire will be alternate revelation and vision. 

I am now getting old — faster and faster. I cannot 
help my gray hairs, nor the wrinkles that gather so slowly 
yet ruthlessly ; no, nor the quaver that will come in m^ 
voice, nor the sense of being feeble in the knees, even 
when I walk only across the floor of my study. But I 
have not got used to age yet. I do not fee/ one atom 
older than I did at three-and-twenty. Nay, to tell all 
the truth, I feel a good deal younger. — For then I only 
lelt that a man had to take up his cross ; whereas now I 
feel that a man has to follow Him ; and that makes an 
unspeakable difference. — When my voice quavers, I feel 
that it is mine and not mine ; that it just belongs to me 
like my watch, which does not go well now, though it 
went well thirty years ago — not more than a minute out 
in a month. And when I feel my knees shake, I think 
of them with a kind of pity, as I used to think of an old 
mare of my father’s of which I was very fond when I was 
a lad, and which bore me across many a field and over 
many a fence, but which at last came to have the same 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


3 


weakness in her knees that I have in mine ; and she 
knew it too, and took care of them, and so of herself, in 
a wise equine fashion. These things are not me — or /, 
if the grammarians like it better, (I always feel a strife 
between doing as the scholar does and doing as other 
people do;) they are not me, I say; I /lave them — and, 
please God, shall soon have better. For it is not a 
pleasant thing for a young man, or a young woman 
either, I venture to say, to have an old voice, and a 
wrinkled face, and weak knees, and gray hair, or no hair 
at all. And if any moral Philistine, as our queer Ger- 
man brothers over the Northern fish-pond would call 
him, say that this is all rubbish, for that we are old, I 
would answer : “ Of all children how can the children of 
God be oldf’ 

So little do I give in to calling this outside of me, 
me^ that I should not mind presenting a minute descrip- 
tion of my own person such as would at once clear me 
from any suspicion of vanity in so introducing myself. 
Not that my honesty would result in the least from 
indifference to the external — ^but from comparative indif- 
ference to the transitional ; not to the transitional in 
itself, which is of eternal significance and result, but to 
the particular form of imperfection which it may have 
reached at any individual moment of its infinite pro- 
gression towards the complete. For no sooner have I 
spoken the word now, than that now is dead and another 
is dying ; naj% in such a regard, there is no no7a — only a 
past of whicf we know a little, and a future of which we 
know far less and far more. But I will not speak at all 


ANNALS OF A QUIET N EIGH BO U F HOC D. 


\ 


of this body of my earthly tabernacle, for it is on the 
whole more pleasant to forget all about it. And be- 
sides, I do not want to set any of my readers to whom I 
would have the pleasure of speaking far more openly 
and cordially than if they were seated on the other side 
of my writing-table — I do not want to set them wonder- 
ing whether the vicar be this vicar or that vicar; or 
indeed to run the risk of giving the offence I might 
give, if I were anything else than “ a wandering voice.” 

I did not feel as I feel now when first I came to this 
parish. For, as I have said, I am now getting old very 
fast. True, I was thirty when I was made a vicar, an 
age at which a man might be expected to be beginning 
to grow wise ; but even then I had much yet to learn. 

I well remember the first evening on which I wan- 
dered out from the vicarage to take a look about me — 
to find out, in short, where I was, and what aspect the 
sky and earth here presented. Strangely enough, I had 
never been here before ; for the presentation had been 
made me while I was abroad. — I was depressed. It 
was depressing weather. Grave doubts as to whether I 
was in my place in the church, would keep rising and 
floating about, like rain-clouds within me. Not that I 
doubted about the church; I only doubted about my- 
self. “ Were my motives pure “ What were my 
motives r’ And, to tell the truth, I did not know what 
my motives were, and therefore I could not answei 
about the purity of them. Perhaps seeing we are in this 
world in order to become pure, it would be Qxj>ecting 
loo much of any young man that he should be abso 


DKSFONDBNCY AND CONSOLATIOIT. 


J 


lutely certain that he was pure in anything. But the 
question followed very naturally : Had I then any 
right to be in the Church — to be eating her bread and 
drinking her wine without knowing whether I was fit to 
do her work To which the only answer I could find 
was, “ The Church is part of God’s world. He makes 
men to work ; and work of some sort must be done by 
every honest man. Somehow or other, I hardly know 
how, I find myself in the Church. I do not know that I 
am fitter for any other work. I see no other work to 
do. There is work here which I can do after some 
fashion. With God’s help I will try to do it well.” 

This resolution brought me some relief, but still I was 
depressed. It was depressing weather. — I may as well 
say that I was not married then, and that I firmly be- 
lieved I never should be married — not from any ambi- 
tion taking the form of self-denial ; nor yet from any 
notion that God takes pleasure in being a hard master ; 
but there was a lady — Well, I will be honest, as I would 
be. — I had been refused a few months before, which I 
think was the best thing ever happened to me except 
one. That one, of course, was when I was accepted. 
But this is not much to the purpose now. Only it was 
depressing weather. 

For is it not depressing when the rain is falling, and 
the steam of it is rising? when the river is crawling 
along muddily, and the horses stand stock-still in the 
meadows with their spines in a straight line from the 
cars to where they fail utterly in the tails ? I should 
only put on goloshes now, and think of the days when I 


6 


ANNALS OF J QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


despised damp. Ah! it was mental waterproof that 1 
needed then ; for let me despise damp as much as I 
would, I could neither keep it out of my mind, nor help 
suffering the spiritual rheumatism which it occasioned. 
Now, the damp never gets farther than my goloshes and 
my Macintosh. And for that worst kind of rheumatism 
— I never feel it now. 

But I had begun to tell you about that first evening. 
— I had arrived at the vicarage the night before, and it 
had rained all day, and was still raining, though not so 
much. I took my umbrella and went out. 

For as I wanted to do my work well (everything tak- 
ing far more the shape of work to me, then, and duty, 
than it does now — though, even now, I must confess 
things have occasionally to be done by the clergyman 
because there is no one else to do them, and hardly 
from other motive than a sense of duty, — a man not 
being able to shirk work because it may happen to be 
dirty) — I say, as I wanted to do my work well, or rather, 
perhaps, because I dreaded drudgery as much as any 
poor fellow who comes to the treadmill in consequence 
— I wanted to interest myself in it ; and therefore I would 
go and fall in love, first of all, if I could, with the 
country round about And my first step beyond my 
own gate was up to the ankles in mud. 

Therewith, curiously enough, arose the distracting 
thought how I could possibly preach two good sermons 
a Sunday to the same people, when one of the sermons 
was in the afternoon instead of the evening, to which 
latter I had been accustomed in the large town in which 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


1 


I had formerly officiated as curate in a proprietary chapel 
I, who had declaimed indignantly against excitement from 
without, who had been inclined to exalt the intellect at 
the expense even of the heart, began to fear that there 
must be something in the darkness, and the gas-lights, 
and the crowd of faces, to account for a man’s being 
able to preach a better sermon, and for servant girls pre- 
ferring to go out in the evening. Alas ! I had now to 
preach, as I might judge with all probability beforehand, 
to a company of rustics, of thought yet slower than of 
speech, unaccustomed in fact to think at all, and that in 
the sleepiest, deadest part of the day, when I could 
hardly think myself, and when, if the weather should be 
at all warm, I could not expect many of them to be 
awake. And what good might I look for as the result 
of my labour ? How could I hope in these men and 
women to kindle that fire which, in the old days of the 
outpouring of the Spirit, made men live with the sense 
of the kingdom of heaven about them, and the expecta- 
tion of something glorious at hand just outside that 
invisible door which lay between the worlds ? 

I have learned since, that perhaps I overrated the 
spirituality of those times, and underrated, not being 
myself spiritual enough to see all about me, the spiritu- 
ality of these times. I think I have learned since, that 
the parson of a parish must be content to keep the 
upper windows of his mind open to the holy winds and 
the pure lights of heaven ; and the side windows of tone, 
of speech, of behaviour open to the earth, to let forth 
upon Ms fellow-men the tenderness and truth which 


ANNALS OP A QUIET N BIGHBOUEHOOD. 




those upper influences bring forth in any region exposed 
to their operation. Believing in his Master, such a ser- 
vant shall not make haste ; shall feel no feverous desire 
to behold the work of his hands ; shall be content to be as 
his Master, who waiteth long for the fruits of His earth. 

But surely I am getting older than I thought; foi 1 
keep wandering away from my subject, which is this, my 
first walk in my new cure. My excuse is, that I want 
my reader to understand something of the state of my 
mind, and the depression under which I was labouring. 
He will perceive that I desired to do some work worth 
calling by the name of work, and that I did not see how 
to get hold of a beginning. 

I had not gone far from my own gate before the rain 
ceased, though it was still gloomy enough for any 
amount to follow. I drew down my umbrella, and be- 
gan to look about me. The stream on my left was so 
swollen that I could see its brown in patches through 
the green of the meadows along its banks. A little in 
front of me, the road, rising quickly, took a sharp tuiii 
to pass along an old stone bridge that spanned the 
water with a single fine arch, somewhat pointed ; and 
through the arch I could see the river stretching away 
up through the meadows, 'its banks bordered with pol- 
lards. Now, pollards always made me miserable. In 
the first place, they look ill-used ; in the next place, they 
look tame ; in the third place, they look very ugly. I 
had not learned then to honour them on the ground 
that they yield not a jot to the adversity of their circum 
■tancet ; that, if they must be pollards, they sti/1 will be 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


9 


trees ; and what they may not do with grace, they will 
yet do with bounty ; that, in short, their life bursts forth, 
desp’te of all that is done to repress and destroy their 
individuality. When you have once learned to honour 
anything, love is not very far off ; at least that has 
always been my experience. But, as I have said, I had 
not yet learned to honour pollards, and therefore they 
made me more miserable than I was already. 

When, having followed the road, I stood at last on 
the bridge, and, looking up and down the river through 
the misty air, saw two long rows of these pollards dimin- 
ishing till they vanished in both directions, the sight oi 
them took from me all power of enjoying the water be- 
neath me, the green fields around me, or even the old- 
world beauty of the little bridge upon which I stood, 
although all sorts of bridges have been from very infancy 
a delight to me. For I am one of those who never gei 
rid of their infantile predilections, and to have once 
enjoyed making a mud bridge, was to enjoy all bridges 
for ever. 

I saw a man in a white smock-frock coming along the 
road beyond, but I turned my back to the road, leaned 
my arnio on the parapet of the bridge, and stood gazing 
where I saw no visions, namely, at those very poplars. 
I heard the man’s footsteps coming up the crown of the 
wch, but I would not turn to greet him. I was in a 
selfish humour if ever I was ; for surely if ever one man 
ought to greet another, it was upon such a comfortless 
afternoon. The footsteps stopped behind me, and 1 
heard a voice : — 


lO 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOIX 


“ I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar 

I turned instantly and answered, “ I am. Do you 
want me 1 ” 

“ I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, If ye T1 
not take it amiss.” 

Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in hi* 
hand, clothed as I have said, in a white smock-frock. 
He smoothed his short gray hair with his curved palm 
down over his forehead as he stood. His face was of 
a red brown, from much exposure to the weather. 
There was a certain look of roughness, without hardness, 
in it, which spoke of endurance rather than resistance, 
although he could evidently set his face as a flint. His 
features were large and a little coarse, but the smile that 
parted his lips when he spoke, shone in his gray eyes as 
well, and lighted up a countenance in which a man might 
trust. 

** I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you ’ll not take it 
amiss.” 

‘‘ Certainly not,” I answered, pleased with the man’s 
iddress, as he stood square before me, looking as modest 
as fearless. “ The sight of a man’s face is what every- 
body has a light to ; but, for all that, I should like to 
know why you want to see my face.” 

“ Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told 
me so when I axed you.” 

“ Well, then, you ’ll see my face on Sunday in church 
— that is, if you happen to be there.” 

For, although some might think it the more dignified 
way, I could not take it as a matter of course that h# 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


II 


would be at church. A man might have better reasons 
for staying away from church than I had for going, even 
though I was the parson, and it was my business. Some 
clergymen separate between themselves and their office 
to a degree which I cannot understand. To assert the 
dignities of my office seems to me very like exalting my- 
self ; and when I have had a twinge of conscience about 
it, as has happened more than once, I have then found 
comfort in these two texts : “ The Son of man came not 
to be ministered unto but to minister ; ” and “ It is 
enough that the servant should be as his master.*’ 
Neither have I ever been able to see the very great 
difference between right and wrong in a clergyman, and 
right and wrong in another man. All that I can pretend 
to have yet discovered comes to this : that what is right 
in another man is right in a clergyman; and what is 
wrong in another man is much worse in a clergyman. 
Here, however, is one more proof of approaching age. 
I do not mean the opinion, but the digression. 

‘‘ Well, then,” I said, ‘‘ you ’ll see my face in church 
on Sunday, if you happen to be there.” 

“ Yes, sir; but you see, sir, on the bridge here, the 
parson is the parson like, and I *m Old Rogers ; and I 
looks in his face, and he looks in mine, and I says to 
myself, ‘ This is my parson.’ But o’ Sundays he ’s 
nobody’s parson ; he ’s got his work to do, and it mun 
be done, and there *s an end on ’t” 

That there was a real idea in the old man’s mind wai 
considerably clearer than the logic by which he tried to 
bring it out 


13 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Did you know parson that ’s gone, sir he went on. 

“ No,” I answered. 

“ Oh, sir ! he wur a good parson. Many ’s the time 
he come and sit at my son’s bedside — him that ’s dead 
and gone, sir — for a long hour, on a Saturday night, too 
And then when I see him up in the desk the next mor- 
nin’, I ’d say to myself, ‘ Old Rogers, that ’s the same 
man as sat by your son’s bedside last night. Think o’ 
that, Old Rogers !’ But, somehow, I never did feel 
right sure o’ that same. He didn’t seem to have the 
same cut, somehow ; and he didn’t talk a bit the same. 
And when he spoke to me after sermon, in the church- 
yard, I was always of a mind to go into the church 
again and look up to the pulpit to see if he war really 
out ov it j for this warn’t the same man, you see. But 
you’ll know all about it better than I can tell you, sir. 
Only I always liked parson better out o’ the pulpit, and 
that ’s how I come to want to make you look at me, sir, 
histead o’ the water down there, afore I see you in the 
church to-morrow momin’.” 

The old man laughed a kindly laugh j but he had set 
me thinking, and I did not know what to say to him all 
at once. So after a short pause, he resumed — 

“ You ’ll be thinking me a queer kind of a man, sir* 
to speak to my betters before my betters speaks to me. 
But mayhap you don’t know what a parson is to us poor 
folk that has ne’er a friend more lamed than theirselves 
but the parsoa And besides, sir, I ’m an old salt, — an 
old man-o’-war’s man, — ^and I’ve been all round the 
world, sir j and 1 ha’ been in all sorts o’ company. 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


IJ 


pirates and all, sir; and I aint a tit frightened of a par- 
son. No; I love a parson, sir. And I’ll tell you for 
why, sir. He ’s got a good telescope, and he gits to the 
masthead, and he looks out. And he sings out, * Land 
ahead!’ or ‘Breakers ahead!’ and gives directions ac- 
cordin’. Only I can’t always make out what he says. 
But when he shuts up his spyglass, and comes down the 
riggin’, and talks to us like one man to another, then I 
don’t know what I should do without the parson. Good 
evenin’ to you, sir, and welcome to Marshmallows.” 

The pollards did not look half so dreary. The river 
began to glimmer a little ; and the old bridge had be- 
come an interesting old bridge. The country altogether 
was rather nice than otherwise. I had found a friend 
already ! — that is, a man to whom I might possibly be 
of some use ; and that was the most precious friend I 
could think of in my present situation and mood. I 
had learned something from him too ; and I resolved to 
try all I could to be the same man in the pulpit that J 
was out of it. Some may be inclined to say that I had 
better have formed the resolution to be the same man 
out of the pulpit that I was in it. But the one will go 
quite right with the other. Out of the pulpit I would 
be the same man I was in it — seeing and feeling the 
lealities of the unseen ; and in the pulpit I would be the 
same man I was out of it — taking facts as they are, and 
dealing with things as they show themselves in the 
world. 

One other occurrence before I went home that even- 
ing, and I shall close the chapter. I hope I shall not 


M 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD 


write another so dull as this. I dare not piomise, 
though ; for this is a new kind of work to me. 

Before I left the bridge, — while, in fact, I was con- 
templating the pollards with an eye, if not of favour, yet 
of diminished dismay, — the sun, which, for anything I 
knew of his whereabouts, either from knowledge of the 
country, aspect of the evening, or state of my own feel- 
ings, might have been down for an hour or two, burst 
his cloudy bands, and blazed out as if he had just risen 
from the dead, instead of being just about to sink into 
the grave. Do not tell me that my figure is untrue, foi 
that the sun never sinks into the grave, else I will retort 
that it is just as true of the sun as of a man j for that no 
man sinks into the grave. He only disappears. Life is 
a constant sunrise, which death cannot interrupt, any 
more than the night can swallow up the sun. “ God is 
not the God of the dead, but of the living ; for all live 
unto him.” 

Well, the sun shone out gloriously. The whole sweep 
of the gloomy river answered him in gladness ; the w'et 
leaves of the pollards quivered and glanced; the 
meadows offered up their perfect green, fresh and clear 
out of the trouble of the rain ; and away in the distance, 
upon a rising ground covered with trees, glittered a 
weathercock. What if I found afterwards that it was 
only on the roof of a stable 1 It shone, and that was 
enough. And when the sun had gone below the horizon, 
and the fields and the river were dusky once more, there 
it glittered still over the darkening earth, a symbol of 
that faith which is “ the evide'xe of things not seen,*' 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


IS 


and It made my heart swell as at a chant from the pro- 
phet Isaiah. What matter then whether it hung over a 
stable-roof or a church-tower t 

I stood up and wandered a little farther — off the 
bridge, and along the road. I had not gone far before 
I passed a house, out of which came a young woman 
leading a little boy. They came after me, the boy 
gazing at the red and gold and green of the sunset 
sky. As they passed me, the child said — 

“ Auntie, I think I should like to be a painter.’* 

“ Why returned his companion. 

** Because, then,” answered the child, “ I could help 
God to paint the sky.” 

What his aunt replied I do not know; for they 
were presently beyond my hearing. But I went on 
answering him myself all the way home. Did God care 
to paint the sky of an evening, that a few of His children 
might see it, and get just a hope, just an aspiration, out 
of its passing green, and gold, and purple, and red ? and 
should I think my day’s labour lost, if it wrought no 
visible salvation in the earth 1 

But was the child’s aspiration in vain i Could I tell 
him God did not want his help to paint the sky] True, 
he could mount no scaffold against the infinite of the 
glowing west. But might he not with his little palette 
and brush, when the time came, show his brothers and 
sisters what he had seen there, and make them see it 
too ] Might he not thus come, after long trying, to help 
God to paint this glory of vapour and light inside the 
minds of His children] Ah ! if any man’s work is not 


i6 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


with God, its results shall be burned, ruthlessly burned, 
because poor and bad. 

“ So, for my part,” I said to myself, as I walked home, 
“ if I can put one touch of a rosy sunset into the life 
of any man or woman of my cure, I shall feel that 1 
have worked with God. He is in no haste ; and if I do 
what I may in earnest, I need not mourn if I work no 
great work on the earth. Let God make His sunsets : 
I will mottle my little fading cloud. To help the growth 
of a thought that struggles towards the light ; to brush 
with gentle hand the earth-stain from the white of one 
snowdrop — such be my ambition ! So shall I scale the 
rocks in front, not leave my name carved upon those 
behind me.” 

People talk about special providences. I believe in 
the providences, but not in the specialty. I do not 
believe that God lets the thread of my affairs go for six 
days, and on the seventh evening takes it up for a 
moment. The so-called special providences are no ex- 
ception to the rule — they are common to all men at all 
moments. But it is a fact that God’s care is more 
evident in some instances of it than in others to the dim 
and often bewildered vision of humanity. Upon such 
instances men seize and call them providences. It is 
well that they can ; but it would be gloriously better if 
they could believe that the whole matter is one grand 
providence. 

I was one of such men at the time, and could not fail 
to see what I called a special providence in this, that on 
my first attempt to find where I stood in the scheme of 


DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 


17 


Pror idence, and while I was discouraged with regard to 
the work before me, I should fall in with these two — an 
old man whom I could help, and a child who could help 
me ; the one opening an outlet for my labour and my 
love, and the other reminding me of the highest source 
of the most humbling comfort, — that in all my work I 
might be a fellow-worker with God, 


CHAPTER IL 


MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 

HESE events fell on the Saturday night On 
the Sunday morning, I read prayers and 
preached. Never before had 1 enjoyed so 
much the petitions of the Church, which 
Hooker calls “the sending of angels upward,” or the 
reading of the lessons, which he calls “ the receiving ot 
angels descended from above.” And whether from the 
newness of the parson, or the love of the service, cer- 
tainly a congregation more intent, or more responsive, 
a clergyman will hardly find. But, as I had feared, it 
was dirferent in the afternoon. The people had dined, 
and the usual somnolence had followed; nor could I 
find in my heart to blame men and women who worked 
hard all the week, for being drowsy on the day of rest 
So I curtailed my sermon as much as 1 could, omitting 
page after page of my manuscript ; and when I came to 
a close, was rewarded by perceiving an agreeable surprise 



ICY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


«9 


upon many of the faces round me. I resolved that, in 
the afternoons at least, my sermons should be as short 
as heart could wish. 

But that afternoon there was at least one man of the 
congregation who was neither drowsy nor inattentive. 
Repeatedly my eyes left the page off which I was read- 
ing and glanced towards him. Not once did I find his 
eyes turned away from me. 

There was a small loft in the west end of the church, 
in which stood a little organ, whose voice, weakened 
by years of praising, and possibly of neglect, had yet, 
among a good many tones that were rough, wooden, 
and reedy, a few remaining that were as mellow as ever 
praiseful heart could wish to praise withal. And these 
came in amongst the rest like trusting thoughts amidst 
"eating cares;” like the faces of children borne in the 
arms of a crowd of anxious mothers ; like hopes that are 
young prophecies amidst the downward sweep of events. 
For, though I do not understand music, I have a keen 
ear for the perfection of the single tone, or the complete- 
ness of the harmony. But of this organ more by and by. 

Now this little gallery was something larger than was 
just necessary for the organ and its ministrants, and a 
few of the parishioners had chosen to sit in its fore- front 
Upon this occasion there was no one there but the man 
to whom I have referred. 

The space below this gallery was not included in the 
part of the church used for the service. It was claimed 
by the gardener of the place, that is the sexton, to hold 
his gardening tools. There were a few ancient carvings 


20 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


in wood lying in it, very brown in the dusky light that 
came through a small lancet window, opening, not to the 
outside, but into the tower, itself dusky with an endur- 
ing twilight. And there were some broken old head 
stones, and the kindly spade and pickaxe — but I have 
really nothing to do with these now, for I am, as it were, 
in the pulpit, whence one ought to look beyond such 
things as these. 

Rising against the screen which separated this mouldy 
portion of the church from the rest, stood an old monu- 
ment of carved wood, once brilliantly painted in the 
portions that bore the arms of the family over whose 
vault it stood, but now all bare and worn, itself gently 
flowing away into the dust it commemorated. It lifted 
its gablet, carved to look like a canopy, till its apex was 
on a level with the book-board on the front of the 
organ-loft ; and over — in fact upon this apex appeared 
the face of the man whom I have mentioned. It was a 
very remarkable countenance — pale, and very thin, with- 
out any hair, except that of thick eyebrows that far over- 
hung keen, questioning eyes. Short bushy hair, gray, 
not white, covered a well formed head with a high 
narrow forehead. As I have said, those keen eyes 
kept looking at me from under their gray eyebrows all 
the time of the sermon — intelligently without doubt, but 
whether sympathetically or otherwise I could not de- 
termine. And indeed I hardly know yet. 

My vestry door opened upon a little group of graves, 
simple and green, without headstone or slab; poor 
graves, the memory of whose occupants no one had 


MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


SI 


cared to preserve. Good men must have preceded 
me here, else the poor would not have lain so near the 
chancel and the vestry-door. All about and beyond 
were stones, with here and there a monument; for 
mine was a large parish, and there were old and rich 
families in it, more of which buried their dead here 
than assembled their living. But close by the vestry- 
d)or, there was this little billowy lake of grass. And 
at the end of the narrow path leading from the door, 
was the churchyard wall, with a few steps on each side 
of it, that the parson might pa'^s at once from the 
churchyard into his own shrubbery, here tangled, almost 
matted, from luxuriance of growth. But I would not 
creep out the back way from among my people. Thai 
way might do very well to come in by ; but to go out, 
I would use the door of the people. So I went along 
the church, a fine old place, such as I had never hoped 
to be presented to, and went out by the door in the 
north side into the middle of the churchyard. The door 
on the other side was chiefly used by the few gentry of 
the neighbourhood ; and the Lych-gate, with its covered 
way, (for the main road had once passed on that side,) 
was shared between the coffins and the carriages, the 
dead who had no rank but one, that of the dead, and 
the living who had more money than their neighbours. 
For, let the old gentry disclaim it as they may, mere 
wealth, derived from whatever source, will sooner reach 
their level than pool antiquity, or the rarest refinement 
of personal worth; although, to be sure, the oldest of 
them will sooner give to the rich their sons or theii 


■3 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


daughters to wed, to love if they can, to have diildrea 
by, than they will yield a jot of their ancestral pre- 
eminence, or acknowledge any equality in their sons 
or daughters-in-law. The carpenter’s son is to them an 
old myth, not an everlasting fact To IVIammon alon( 
will they yield a little of their rank — none of it to 
Christ. Let me glorify God that Jesus took not on 
Him the nature of nobles, but the seed of Adam ; for 
what could I do without my poor brothers and sisters 1 

I passed along the church to the northern door, and 
went out. The churchyard lay in bright sunshine. All 
the rain and gloom were gone. “ ^f one could only 
bring this glory of sun and grass into one’s hope for the 
future!” thought I; and looking down I saw the little 
boy who aspired to paint the sky, looking up in my 
face with mingled confidence and awe. 

“ Do you trust me, my little man ?” thought I. “ You 
shall trust me then. But I won’t be a priest to you, 
I ’ll be a big brother.” 

For the priesthood passes away, the brotherhood en- 
dures. The priesthood passes away, swallowed up in 
the brotherhood. It is because men cannot learn simple 
things, cannot believe in the brotherhood, that they 
need a priesthood. But as Dr Arnold said of the Sun- 
day, “ They do need it” And I, for one, am sure that 
the priesthood needs the people much more than the 
people needs the priesthood. 

So I stooped and lifted the child and held him in my 
arms. And the little fellow looked at me one moment 
longer, and then put his arms gently round my neck. 


MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


*1 


And so we were friends. When I had set him down, 
which I did presently, for I shuddered at the idea of the 
people thinking that I was showing off the c/er^man, 
I looked ac the boy. In his face was great sweetness 
mingled with great rusticity, and I could not tell whethei 
he was the child of gentlefolk or of peasants. He did 
not say a word, but walked away to join his aunt, who 
was waiting for him at the gate of the churchyard. He 
kept his head turned towards me, however, as he went, 
so that, not seeing where he was going, he stumbled 
over the grave of a child, and fell in the hollow on the 
other side. I ran to pick him up. His aunt i cached 
him at the same moment 

“Oh, tliank you, sir!” she said, as I gave him to 
her, with an earnestness which seemed to me dispropor- 
tionate to the deed, and carried him away with a deep 
blush over all her countenance. 

At the churchyard-gate, the old man-of-war^s man was 
waiting to have another look at me. His hat was in his 
hand, and he gave a pull to the short hair over his fore- 
head, as if he would gladly take that off too, to show his 
respect for the new parson. I held out my hand grate- 
fully. It could not close around the hard, unyielding 
mass of fingers which met it He did not know how to 
shake hands, and left it all to me. But pleasure sparkled 
in his eyes. 

“ My old woman would like to shake hands with you, 
sir,” he said 

Beside him stood his old woman, in a portentous 
bonnet, beneath whose gay yellow ribbons appeared a 


•4 


ANTALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOU AMOOD. 


dusky old face, wrinkled like a ship’s timbers, out of 
which looked a pair of keen black eyes, where the besi 
beauty, that of loving-kindness, had not merely lingered, 
i)ut triumphed. 

“ I shall be in to see you soon,” I said, as I shook 
hands with her. “ I shall find out where you live.” 

“ Down by the mill,” she said ; “ close by it, sii. 
There ’s one bed in our garden that always thrives, in 
the hottest summer, by the plash from the mill, sir.” 

** Ask for Old Rogers, sir,” said the man. “ Every- 
body knows Old Rogers. But if your reverence minds 
what my wife says, you won’t go wrong. When 
you find the river, it takes you to the mill ; and when 
you find the mill, you find the wheel ; and when you 
find the wheel, you haven’t far to look for the cottag# 
HIT. It’s a poor place, but you *11 be welcome, sin” 


CHAPTER III. 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS* 



HE next day I might expect some visitoiiL 
It is a fortunate thing that English society 
now regards the parson as a gentleman, else 
he would have little chance of being useful 
to the upper classes. But I wanted to get a good start 
of them, and see some of my poor before my rich came 
to see me. So after breakfast, on as lovely a Monday 
in the beginning of autumn as ever came to comfort a 
clergyman in the reaction of his efforts to feed his flock 
on the Sunday, I walked out, and took my way to the 
village. I strove to dismiss from my mind every feeling 
ot doing duty,, of performing my part, and all that. I had 
a horror of becoming a moral policeman as much as of 
doing church.” I would simply enjoy the privilege, 
more open to me in virtue of my office, of minister- 
ing. But as no servant has a right to force his ser* 
.ice, so I would be the neighbour only, until such time 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


S6 


as the opportunity of being the servant should sho\f 
itself. 

The village was as irregular as a village should be, 
partly consisting of those white houses with intersect- 
ing parallelograms of black which still abound in some 
regions of our island. Just in the centre, however, 
grouping about an old house of red brick, which had 
once been a manorial residence, but was now subdivided 
in all modes that analytic ingenuity could devise, rose a 
portion of it which, from one point of view, might seem 
part of an old town. But you had only to pass round 
any one of three visible corners to see stacks of wheat 
and a farm-yard ; while in another direction the houses 
went straggling away into a wood that looked very like 
the beginning of a forest, of which some of the village 
orchards appeared to form part From the street the 
slow-winding, poplar-bordered stream was here and there 
just visible. 

I did not quite like to have it between me and my 
village. I could not help preferring that homely rela- 
tion in which the houses are built up like swallow-nesti 
on to the very walls of the cathedrals themselves, to the 
arrangement here, where the river flowed, with what flow 
there was in it, between the church and the people. 

A little way beyond the farther end of the village 
appeared an iron gate, of considerable size, dividing 
a lofty stone wall. And upon the top of that one of 
the stone pillars supporting the gate which I could see, 
stood a creature of stone, whether natant, volant^ passant^ 
ccuchanU or rampant^ I could not tell, only it looked 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


*7 


like something terrible enough for a quite antediluvian 
heraldry. 

As I passed along the street, wondering with myself 
what relations between me and these houses were hid- 
den in the future, my eye was caught by the window of 
a little shop, in which strings of beads and elephants 
of gingerbread formed the chief samples of the goods 
within. It was a window much broader than it was 
high, divided into lozenge-shaped panes. Wondering 
what kind of old woman presided over the treasures 
in this cave of Aladdin, I thought to make a first oi 
my visits by going in and buying something. But I 
hesitated, because I could not think of anything I was 
in want of — at least that the old woman was likely to 
have. To be sure I wanted a copy of Bengel’s “ Gna 
mon;’^ but she was not likely to have that. I wanted 
the fourth plate in the third volume of Law’s “ Behmen;** 
she was not likely to have that either. I did not care 
for gingerbread ; and I had no little girl to take home 
beads to. 

But why should I not go in without an ostensible 
errand? For this reason; there are dissenters every- 
where, and I could not tell but I might be going into 
the shop of a dissenter. Now, though, I confess, no- 
thing would have pleased me better than that all the 
dissenters should return to their old home in the 
Church, I could not endure the suspicion of laying 
myself out to entice them back by canvassing or using 
any personal influence. Whether they returned or not, 
however, (and I did not expect many would,) I hoped 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


a8 


Still, some day, to stand towards every one of them in 
the relation of the parson of the parish, that is, one of 
whom each might feel certain that he was ready to 
serve him or her at any hour when he might be wanted 
to render a service. In the meantime, I could not help 
hesitating. 

I had almost made up my mind to ask if she had a 
small pocket compass, for I had seen such things in 
little country shops — I am afraid only in France, though 
— when the door opened, and out came the little boy 
whom I had already seen twice, and who was therefore 
one of my oldest friends in the place. He came across 
the road to me, took me by the hand, and said — 

“ Come and see mother.” 

“ Where, my dear?” I asked. 

“ In the shop there,” he answered. 

“ Is it your mother’s shop ? ” 

“Yes.” 

I said no more, but accompanied him. Of course my 
expectation of seeing an old woman behind the counter 
had vanished, but I was not in the least prepared for 
the kind of woman I did see. 

The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. A 
)rard or so of counter stretched inwards from the door, 
just as a hint to those who might be intrusively inclined. 
Beyond this, by the chimney-corner, sat the mother, who 
rose as we entered. She was certainly one — I do not 
say of the most beautiful, but, until I have time to ex 
plain further — of the most remarkable women I had ever 
seen. Her face was absolutely white — no, pale cream 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


2g 


colour — except her lips and a spot upon each cheek, 
which glowed with a deep carmine. You would have 
said she had been painting, and painting very inartisti* 
cally, so little was the red shaded into the surrounding 
white. Now this was certainly not beautiful. Indeed* 
it occasioned a strange feeling, almost of terror, at first, 
for she reminded one of the spectre woman in the 
“ Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” But when I got used 
to her complexion, I saw that the form of her features 
was quite beautiful. She might indeed have been 
but for a certain hardness which showed through the 
beauty. This might have been the result of ill healtli, 
ill- endured ; but I doubted it. For there was a certain 
modelling of the cheeks and lips which showed that the 
teeth within were firmly closed ; and, taken with the 
look of the eyes and forehead, seemed the expression ol 
a constant and bitter self-command. But there were in- 
dubitable marks of ill health upon her, notwithstanding; 
for not to mention her complexion, her large dark eye 
was burning as if the lamp of life had broken and the 
oil was blazing ; and there was a slight expansion of the 
nostrils, which indicated physical unrest. But her man- 
ner was perfectly, almost dreadfully, quiet; her voice 
soft, low, and chiefly expressive of indifference. She 
spoke without looking me in the face, but did not seem 
cither shy or ashamed. Her figure was remarkably 
graceful, though too worn to be beautiful. — Here was 
a strange parishioner for me! — in a country toy-shop, 
too ! 

As soon as the little fellow had brought me in, he 


30 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


shrunk away through a half-open door that revealed a 
stair behind. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” said the mother, 
coldly, and with a kind of book-propriety of speech, as 
she stood on the other side of the little counter, pre- 
pared to open box or drawer at command. 

“To tell the truth, I hardly know,” I said. “ I am 
the new vicar ; but I do not think that I should have 
come in to see you just to-day, if it had not been that 
your little boy there — where is he gone to 1 He asked 
me to come in and see his mother.” 

“ He is too ready to make advances to strangers, 
sir.” 

She said this in an incisive tone. 

“ Oh, but,” I answered, “ I am not a stranger to him. 
I have met him twice before. He is a little darling. 1 
assure you he has quite gained my heart” 

No reply for a moment Then just “ Indeed 1” and 
nothing more. 

I could not understand it 

But a jar on a shelf, marked Tobacco^ rescued me from 
the most pressing portion of the perplexity, namely, 
what to say next 

“ Will you give me a quarter of a pound of tobacco V 
1 said. 

Tlie woman turned, took down the jar, arranged the 
scales, weighed out the quantity, wrapped it up, took 
the money, — and all without one other word than, 
“ Thank you, sir which was all I could return, with 
the addition of, “ Good morning/' 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


3 > 


For nothing was left me but to walk away with my 
parcel in my pocket. 

The little boy did not show himself again. I had 
hoped to find him outside. 

Pondering, speculating, I now set out for the mill, 
which, I had already learned, was on the village side of 
the river. Coming to a lane leading down to the river, 
I followed it, and then walked up a path outside the 
row of pollards, through a lovely meadow, where brown 
and white cows were eating and shining all over the 
thick deep grass. Beyond the meadow, a wood on the 
side of a rising ground went parallel with the river a 
long way. The river flowed on my right. That is, I 
knew that it was flowing, but I could not have told how 
I knew, it was so slow. Still swollen, it was of a clear 
brown, in which you could see the browner trouts dart- 
ing to and fro with such a slippery gliding, that the 
motion seemed the result of will, without any such in- 
termediate and complicate arrangement as brain and 
nerves and muscles. The water-beetles went spinning 
about over the surface ; and one glorious dragon-fly 
made a mist about him with his long wings. And over 
all, the sun hung in the sky, pouring down life ; shining 
on the roots of the willows at the bottom of the stream ; 
lighting up the black head of the water-rat as he hurried 
across to the .opposite bank ; glorifying the rich green 
lake of the grass ; and giving to the whole an utterance 
of love and hope and joy, which was, to him who could 
read it, a more certain and full revelation of God than 
any display of power in thunder, in avalanche, in stormy 


3 * 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


sea. Those with whom the feeling of religion is only 
occasional, have it most when the awful or grand breaks 
out of the common ; the meek who inherit the earth, 
find the God of the whole earth more evidently present 
— I do not say more present, for there is no measuring 
of His presence — more evidently present in the com- 
monest things. That which is best He gives most plen- 
tifully, as is reason with Him. Hence the quiet fulness 
of ordinary nature ; hence the Spirit to them that ask it. 

I soon came within sound of the mill ; and presently, 
crossing the stream that flowed back to the river after 
having done its work on the com, I came in front of 
the building, and looked over the half-door into the mill. 
The floor was clean and dusty. A few full sacks, tied 
tight at the mouth — they always look to me as if 
Joseph’s silver cup were just inside — stood about In 
the farther comer, the flour was trickling down out of 
two wooden spouts into a wooden receptacle below. 
The whole place was full of its own faint but pleasant 
odour. No man was visible. The spouts went on 
pouring the slow torrent of flour, as if everything could 
go on with perfect propriety of itself. I could not even 
see how a man could get at the stones that I heard 
grinding away above, except he went up the rope that 
hung from the ceiling. So I walked round the comei 
of the place, and found myself in the company of the 
water-wheel, mossy and green with ancient waterdrops, 
looking so furred and overgrown and lumpy, that one 
might have thought the wood of it had taken to growing 
again in its old days, and so the wheel was losing by 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


3.1 


slow degrees the shape of a wheel, to become some new 
awful monster of a pollard As yet, however, it was 
going round; slowly, indeed, and with the gravity of 
age, but doing its work, and casting its loose drops in 
the alms-giving of a gentle rain upon a little plot of 
Master Rogers’s garden, which was therefore full of 
moisture-loving flowers. This plot was divided from the 
mill-wheel by a small stream which carried away the 
surplus water, and was now full and running rapidly. 

Beyond the stream, beside the flower bed, stood a 
dusty young man, talking to a young woman with a rosy 
face and clear honest eyes. The moment they saw me 
they parted. The young man came across the stream 
at a step, and the young woman went up the garden 
towards the cottage. 

“That must be Old Rogers’s cottage?” I said to the 
miller. 

“ Yes, sir,” he answered, looking a little sheepish. 

“Was that his daughter — that nice-looking young 
woman you were talking to ?” 

“ Yes, sir, it was.” 

And he stole a shy pleased look at me out of the 
corners of his eyes. 

“ It 's a good thing,” I said, “ to have an honest ex- 
perienced old mill like yours, that can manage to go on 
of itself for a little while now and then.” 

This gave a great help to his budding confidence. He 
laughed. 

“Well, sir, it’s not very often it’s left to itself. Jane 

isn’t at her father’s above once or twice a week at most*' 

c 


34 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“She doesn’t live with them, then?” 

“No, sir. You see they’re both hearty, and they 
ain’t over well to do, and Jane lives up at the Hall, sir. 
She ’s upper housemaid, and waits on one of the young 
ladies. — Old Rogers has seen a great deal of the world, 
sir.” 

“ So I imagine. I am just going to see him. Good 
morning.” 

I jumped across the stream, and went up a little gravel- 
walk, which led me in a few yards to the cottage-door. 
It was a sweet place to live in, with honeysuckle growing 
over the house, and the sounds of the softly-labouring 
mill-wheel ever in its little porch and about its windows. 

The door was open, and Dame Rogers came from 
within to meet me. She welcomed me, and led the way 
into her little kitchen. As I entered, Jane went out at 
the back-door. But it was only to call her father, who 
presently came in. 

“I’m glad to see ye, sir. This pleasure comes of 
having no work to-day. After harvest there comes slack 
times for the likes of me. People don’t care about a 
bag of old bones when they can get hold of young men. 
Well, well, never mind, old woman. The Lord ’ll take 
us through somehow. When the wind blows, the ship 
goes; when the wind drops, the ship stops; but the sea 
is His all the same, for He made it; and the wind is 
His all the same too.” 

He spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone, unaware of 
anything poetic in what he said. To him it was jusi 
common sense, and common sense only. 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


3S 


" I am sorry you are out of work,” I said. “ But my 
garden is sadly out of order, and I must have something 
done to it. You don’t dislike gardening, do you 1” 
“Well, I beant a right good hand at garden-work,” 
answered the old man, with some embarrassment, scratch- 
ing his gray head with a troubled scratch. 

There was more in this than met the ear; but what, I 
could not conjecture. I would press the point a little. 
So I took him at his own word. 

“ I won’t ask you to do any of the more ornamental 
part,” I said, — “ only plain digging and hoeing.” 

“ I would rather be excused, sir.” 

“ I am afraid I made you think ” 

“ I thought nothing, sir. I thank you kindly, sir.*’ 

“I assure you I want the work done, and I must 
employ some one else if you don’t undertake it” 

“ Well, sir, my back 's bad now — no, sir, I won’t tell 
a story about it I would just rather not, sir.” 

“Now,” his wife broke in, “now. Old Rogers, why 
won’t ’ee tell the parson the truth, like a man, down- 
right? If ye won’t, I ’ll do it for ’ee. The fact is, sir,” 
she went on, turning to me, with a plate in her hand, 
which she was wiping, “ the fact is, that the old parson’s 
man for that kind o* work was Simmons, t’other end ol 
the village; and my man is so afeard o* hurtin’ e’ei 
another, that he ’ll turn the bread away from his own 
mouth and let it fall in the dirt.” 

“Now, now, old ’oman, don’t ’ee belie me. I’m not 
lo bad as that. You see, sir, I never was good at 
knowin’ right from wrong like. I never was good, that 


$6 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


IS, at tellin* exactly what I ought to do. So when any- 
thing comes up, I just says to myself, ‘ Now, Old Rogers, 
what do you think the Lord would best like you to do V 
And as soon as I ax myself that, I know directly what 
I ’ve got to do ; and then my old woman can’t turn me 
no more than a bull. And she don’t like my obstinate 
fits. But, you see, I daren’t sir, once I axed myself 
that.” 

“ Stick to that, Rogers,” I said. 

‘‘ Besides, sir,” he went on, Simmons wants it more 
than I do. He ’s got a sick wife; and my old woman, 
thank God, is hale and hearty. And there is another 
thing besides, sir: he might take it hard of you, sir, and 
think it was turning away an old servant like ; and then, 
sir, he wouldn’t be ready to hear what you had to tell 
him, and might, mayhap, lose a deal o’ comfort. And 
that I would take worst of all, sir.” 

‘‘ Well, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have the job.” 

“ Thank ye, sir,” said the old man. 

His wife, who could not see the thing quite from her 
husband’s point of view, was too honest to say anything ; 
but she was none the less cordial to me. The daughter 
stood looking from one to the other with attentive face, 
which took everything, but revealed nothing. 

I rose to go. As I reached the door, I remembered 
the tobacco in my pocket. I had not bought it for my- 
self. I never could smoke. Nor do I conceive that 
smoking is essential to a clergyman in the country; 
though I have occasionally envied one of my brethren 
in London, who will sit down by the fire, and, lighting 


IIY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


37 


nk pipe, at the same time please his host and subdue 
the bad smells of the place. And I never could hit hit 
way of talking to his parishioners either. • He could put 
them at their ease in a moment. I think he must have 
got the trick out of his pipe. But in reality, I seldom 
think about how I ought to talk to anybody I am with. 

That I didn’t smoke myself was no reason why 1 
should not help Old Rogers to smoke. So I pulled out 
the tobacco. 

“ You smoke, don’t you, Rogers 1” I said. 

‘‘ Well, sir, I can’t deny it. It ’s not much I spend 
on baccay, anyhow. Is it, dame 1 

** No, that it bean’t,” answered his wife. 

“ You don’t think there ’s any harm in smoking a 
pipe, sirl” 

** Not the least,” I answered, with emphasis. 

" You see, sir,” he went on, not giving me time to 
prove how far I was from thinking there was any harm 
in it, “ You see, sir, sailors learns many ways they might 
be better \»'ithout. I used to take my pan o’ grog with 
the rest of them ; but I give that up quite, ’cause as how 
I don’t want it now.” 

’Cause as how,” interrupted his wife, “you spend 
the money on tea for me, instead. You wicked old 
man to tell stories !” 

“ Well, I takes my share of the tea, old woman, and 
I 'm sure it’s a deal better for me. But, to tell the truth, 
sir, I was a little troubled in my mind about the baccay, 
not knowing whether I ought to have it or not For 
you see, the parson that’s gone didn’t more than hali 


38 ANNALS OP A QUIET N KICHBOURHOOD. 


like it, as I could tell by the turn of his hawse-holes 
when he came in at the door and me a-smokin*. Not 
as he said anything ; for, ye see, I was an old man, and 
I daresay that kep him quiet. But I did hear him blow 
up a young chap i’ the village he come upon promiscus 
with a pipe in his mouth. He did give him a thunderin' 
broadside, to be sure ! So I was in two minds whether 
I ought to go on with my pipe or not.” 

“ And how did you settle the question, Rogers 1” 

" Why, I followed my own old chart, sir.” 

“Quite right. One mustn't mind too much what 
other people think.” 

“ That *s not exactly what I mean, sir.” 

“ What do you mean then ? I should like to know.” 

“ Well, sir, I mean that I said to myself, * Now, Old 
Rogers, what do you think the Lord would say about 
this here baccay business?*” 

“ And what did you think He would say?” 

“ Why, sir, I thought He would say, ‘ Old Rogers, 
have yer baccay ; only mind ye don’t grumble when you 
'aint got none.'” 

Something in this — I could not at the time have told 
what — touched me more than I can express. No doubt 
it was the simple reality of the relation in which the old 
man stood to his Father in heaven that made me feel 
as if the tears would come in spite of me. 

“ And this is the man,” I said to myself, “ whom 1 
thought I should be able to teach ! Well, the wisest 
learn most, and I may be useful to him after all.” 

As 1 said nothing, the old man resumed — 


MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 


39 


** For you see, sir, it is not always a body feels has 
a right to spend his ha’pence on baccay ; and sometimes, 
too, he ’aint got none to spend.” 

“ In the meantime,” I said, “ here is some that I 
bought for you as I came along. I hope you will find 
it good. I am no judge.” 

The old sailor’s eyes glistened with gratitude. “ Well, 
who ’d ha’ thought it. You didn’t think I was beggin* 
for it, sir, surely 

“ You see I had it for you in my pocket** 

“ Well, that is good o* you, sir !” 

“Why, Rogers, that’ll last you a month !” exclaimed 
his wife, looking nearly as pleased as himself. 

“ Six weeks at least, wife,” he answered. “ And ye 
don't smoke yourself, sir, and yet ye bring baccay to 
me ! Well, it ’s just like yer Master, sir.” 

I went away, resolved that Old Rogers should have 
no chance of “grumbling” for want of tobacco, if 1 
could help it 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE COFFIN. 

N the way back, my thoughts were still c'Cu 
pied with the woman I had seen in the little 
shop. The old man-of-war’s man was j>r<)- 
bably the nobler being of the two ; and if I 
had had to choose between them, I should no doubt 
have chosen him. But I had not to choose between 
them ; I had only to think about them ; and I thought a 
great deal more about the one I could not understand 
than the one I could understand. For Old Rogers 
wanted little help from me ; whereas the other was evi 
dently a soul in pain, and therefore belonged to me in 
peculiar right of my office; while the readiest way in 
which I could justify to myself the possession of that 
office was to make it a shepherding of the sheep. So I 
resolved to find out what I could about her, as one hav- 
ing a right to know, that I might see whether I could 
not help her. From herself it was evident that hei 



THE COFFIN. 


41 


secret, if she had one, was not to be easily gained ; but 
even the common reports of the village would be some 
enlightenment to the darkness I was in about her. 

As I went again through the village, I observed a nar- 
row lane striking off to the left, and resolved to explore 
in that direction. It led up to one side of the large 
house of which I have already spoken. As I came near, 
I smelt what has been to me always a delightful smell — 
that of fresh deals under the hands of the carpenter. In 
the scent of those boards of pine is enclosed all the idea 
the tree could gather of the world of forest where it was 
reared. It speaks of many wild and bright but chiefly 
clean and rather cold things. If I were idling, it would 
draw me to it across many fields. — Turning a comer, I 
heard the sound of a saw. And this sound drew me yet 
more. For a carpenter’s shop was the delight of my 
boyhood ; and after I began to read the history of our 
Lord with something of that sense of reality with which 
we read other histories, and which, I am sorry to think, 
so much of the well-meant instmction we receive in oui 
youth tends to destroy, my feeling about such a work- 
shop grew stronger and stronger, till at last I never could 
go near enough to see the shavings lying on the floor of 
one, without a spiritual sensation such as I have in enter 
ing an old church ; which sensation, ever since having 
been admitted on the usual conditions to a Mohamme- 
dan mosque, urges me to pull off, not only my hat, but 
my shoes likewise. And the feeling has grown upon 
me, till now it seems at times as if the only cure in tlie 
world for social pride would be to go for five silent 


42 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


minutes into a carpenter’s shop. How one can think ol 
himself as above his neighbours, within sight, sound, or 
smell of one, I fear I am getting almost unable to ima- 
gine , and one ought not to get out of sympathy with the 
wrong. Only as I am growing old now, it does not 
matter so much, for I daresay my time wiJ? not be very 
long. 

So I drew near to the shop, feeling as if the Lord might 
be at work there at one of the benches. And when I 
reached the door, there was my pale-faced hearer of the 
Sunday afternoon, sawing a board for a coffin-lid. 

As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he 
lifted his head and saw me. 

I could not altogether understand the expression of 
his countenance as he stood upright from his labour and 
touched his old hat with rather a proud than a courteous 
gesture. And I could not believe that he was glad to 
see me, although he laid down his saw and advanced to 
the door. It was the gentleman in him, not the man, 
that sought to make me welcome, hardly caring whether 
I saw through the ceremony or not. True, there was a 
smile on his lips, but the smile of a man who cherishes 
a secret grudge ; of one who does not altogether dislike 
you, but who has a claim upon you — say, for an apology, 
of which claim he doubts whether you know the exist- 
ence. So the smile seemed tightened, and stopped just 
when it got half-way to its width, and was about to be 
come hearty and begin to shine. 

“ May I come in T’ I said. 

“ Come in, sir,” he answered. 



AS MY SHADOW FELL ACROSS AND DARKENED HIS WORK, HE LIFTED HIS HEAD. 










•At* 


■i '^'■--.v ■?. ~.v..^-»-' .•■ ■ ■•^d,:^'-'.'- iL.”'^^'-^ V-v 

M p»' • -. ^ i'' 4 .* V^ ; * ■ w * r ^ -jt^BKi^li 

-■’-. . >|Bte.*jfr:-rv* d3®f 


> r * If 

,V*w !S V- ^ 




ifA*' ' ^ 






jr 





^Aj|g 5 J|l_ ■ -..■■x.y^\ •-/-HI' 

* ^HEj KaM ^ ^N : A ^ 

' ■ .t ■ ■' •■.+#"* *■ 

. Vju.-HIj.'-' 

.\ :- '.-'’CWf' /■«!£ 'rT^. 


l> 


to 




i 


#s‘ 


■'■'a-*.. . ■ ■.•: ’'i'-.^**i'‘i^:i\i''*- 


4 i 


- f ^ ' ; -• 

wjt ^ . 

.•NU *• m. 



* ^ 






.*• 


.r ^ .V' -5tV V'' 

r - j' 


ii^‘ ';'■■> " 

vv..fW‘5:^ :< 


* • 




■ rr 


V h' 


•C-i 


tl> 




A ^ N ♦ * 

4 V >- , 

t* 


pa'-. . 4 S^. ' .^■'j *.', ;>.*''^-ri4- ' ' ■ 

■/» 


^• v J- 


L^.>^ 


? ^ ' 




j • • 


^ V; ■ I. f- 




r-l 





• r V.O V . • > 4 * V' ‘ ^ 

^ ^ . ' ' ’ .. • a •*’ "*- 



«* 





S^' 


Ik., ier- - 




.V- ' 


iF 




•av . 1 ■•4' v; ®!R^!-;i -. v 










t » 


.k •■ 


^ A 


•» -:- 




-in .ifSc£ca 

"V. . . •& ^ * .i ',4 ^ ' 1 





THE COFFIH. 


4S 


* I am glad I have happened to come upon you by 
accident,” I said. 

He smiled as if he did not quite believe in the acci« 
dent, and considered it a part of the play between us 
that I should pretend it. I hastened to add — 

“I was wandering about the place, making some 
acquaintance with it, and with my friends in it, when 
I came upon you quite unexpectedly. You know I 
saw you in church on Sunday afternoon.” 

I know you saw me, sir,” he answered, with a motion 
as if to return to his work; “but, to tell the truth, I 
don’t go to church very often.” 

I did not quite know whether to take this as proceed- 
ing from an honest fear of being misunderstood, or from 
a sense of being in general superior to all that sort of 
thing. But I felt that it would be of no good to pursue 
the inquiry directly. I looked therefore for something 
to say. 

“ Ah ! your work is not always a pleasant one,” I said, 
associating the feelings of which I have already spoken 
with the facts before me, and looking at the coffin, the 
lower part of which stood nearly finished upon trestles 
on the floor. 

“ Well, there are unpleasant things in all trades,” he 
answered. “But it does not matter,” he added, with 
an increase of bitterness in his smile. 

“I didn’t mean,” I said, “that the work was un- 
pleasant — only sad. It must always be painful to make 
1 coffin.” 

“ A joiner gets used to it, sir, as you do to the funeral 


44 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOa 


service. But, for my part, I don’t see why it should be 
considered so unhappy for a man to be buried. This 
isn’t such a good job, after all, this world, sir, you must 
allow.” 

Neither is that coffin,” said I, as if by a sudden in- 
spiration. 

The man seemed taken aback, as Old Rogers might 
have said. He looked at the coffin and then looked 
at me. 

“Well, sir,” he said, after a short pause, which no 
doubt seemed longer both to him and to me than it 
would have seemed to any third person, “ I don’t see 
anything amiss with the coffin. I don’t say it ’ll last till 
doomsday, as the gravedigger says to Hamlet, because 
I don’t know so much about doomsday as some people 
pretend to ; but you see, sir, it ’s not finished yet.” 

“ Thank you,” I said ; “ that ’s just what I meant 
You thought I was hasty in my judgment of your coffin ; 
whereas I only said of it knowingly what you said of the 
world thoughtlessly. How do you know that the world 
is finished any more than your coffin? And how dare 
you then say that it is a bad job 1 ” 

The same respectfully scornful smile passed over his 
fac^, as much as to say, “ Ah ! it ’s your trade to talk 
that way, so I must not be too hard upon you.” 

“At any rate, sir,” he said, “whoever made it has 
taken long enough about it, a person would think, to 
finish anything he ever meant to finish.” 

“ One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and 
a thousand years as one day,’ I said. 


THE COFFIN. 


4S 


“ Thai ’s supposing,” he answered, “ that the Lord did 
make the world. For my part, I am half of a mind that 
the Lord didn’t make it at all.” 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so,” I answered. 
Hereupon I found that we had changed places a little. 
He looked up at me. The smile of superiority was no 
longer there, and a puzzled questioning, which might 
irdicate either “Who would have expected that from 
you?” or, “What can he mean?” or both at once, had 
taken its place. I, for my part, knew that on the scale 
of the man’s judgment I had risen nearer to his own 
level. As he said nothing, however, and I was in danger 
of being misunderstood, I proceeded at once. 

“ Of course it seems to me better that you should not 
believe God had done a thing, than that you should be- 
lieve He had not done it well ! ” 

“ Ah ! I see, sir. Then you will allow there is some 
ioom for doubting whether He made the woiid at all ? ” 
“Yes; for I do not think an honest man, as you seem 
to me to be, would be able to doubt without any room 
whatever. That would be only for a fool. But it is just 
possible, as we are not perfectly good ourselves — ^you ’ll 
allow that, won’t you ? ” 

“ That I will, sir ; God knows.” 

“ Well, I say — as we ’re not quite good ourselves, it ’s 
just possible that things may be too good for us to do 
them the justice of believing in them.” 

“But there are things, you must allow, so plainly 
vrong ! ” 

** So much so, both in the world and in mvself, that if 


46 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


would be to me torturing despair to believe that God 
did not make the world ; for then, how would it ever be 
put right? Therefore I prefer the theory that He has 
not done making it yet.” 

“ But wouldn’t you say, sir, that God might have 
managed it without so many slips in the making as your 
way would suppose ? I should think myself a bad work 
man if I worked after that fashion.” 

“ I do not believe that there are any slips. You know 
you are making a coffin ; but are you sure you know 
what God is making of the world?” 

“ That I can’t tell, of course, nor anybody else.” 

“Then you can’t say that what looks like a slip is 
really a slip, either in the design or in the workmanship. 
You do not know what end He has in view ; and you 
may find some day that those slips were just the straight 
road to that very end.” 

“ Ah 1 maybe. But you can’t be sure of it, you see.” 

“ Perhaps not, in the way you mean ; but sure enough, 
for all that, to try it upon life — to order my way by it, 
and so find that it works well. And I find that it ex- 
plains everything that comes near it You know that 
no engineer would be satisfied with his engine on paper, 
nor with any proof whatever except seeing how it will 

go-” 

He made no reply. 

It is a principle of mine never to push anything over 
the edge. When I am successful in any argument, my 
one dread is of humiliating my opponent Indeed I 
cannot bear it It humiliates me. And if you wani 


THE COFFIN. 


41 


him to tJiink about anything, you must leave him room, 
and not give him such associations with the question 
that the very idea of it will be painful and irritating to 
him. Let him have a hand in the convincing of himself. 
I have been surprised sometimes to see my own argu- 
ments come up fresh and green, when I thought the 
fowls of the air had devoured them up. When a man 
reasons for victory and not for the truth in the other soul, 
he is sure of just one ally, the same that Faust had in 
fighting Gretchen’s brother — that is, the Devil. But 
God and good men are against him. So I never follow 
up a victory of that kind, for, as I said, the defeat of 
the intellect is not the object in fighting with the sword 
of the Spirit, but the acceptance of the heart. In this 
case, therefore, I drew back. 

“ May I ask for whom you are making that coffin V* 

“ For a sister of my own, sir.” 

“ I 'm sorry to hear that.” 

“ There ’s no occasion. I can't say 1 m sorry, though 
she was one of the best women I ever knew.” 

" Why are you not sorry, then 1 Life ’s a good thing 
ill the main, you will allow.” 

“ Yes, when it 's endurable at all. But to have a brute 
of a husband coming home at any hour of the night or 
morning, drunk upon the money she had earned by hard 
work, was enough to take more of the shine out ol 
things than church-going on Sundays could put in again, 
Tc'gular as she was, poor woman I I'm as glad as her 
brute of a husband, that she 's out of his way at last” 

“ How do you know he 's glad of it t” 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD). 


r8 


** He ’s been dnink every night since she died** 

“ Then he ’s the worse for losing her?” 

“ He may well be. Crying like a h}'pocrite, too, ovci 
his own work ! ” 

“ A fool he must be. A hypocrite, perhaps not. A 
h5^ocrite is a terrible name to give. Perhaps her death 
will do him good.” 

** He doesn’t deserve to be done any good to. I 
would have made this coffin for him with a world of 
pleasure.” 

“ I never found that I deserved anything, not even a 
coffin. The only claim that I could ever lay to any- 
thing was that I was very much in want of it.” 

The old smile returned — as much as to say, “ That 's 
your little game in the church.” But I resolved to try 
nothing more with him at present ; and indeed was sorry 
that I had started the new question at all, partly because 
thus I had again given him occasion to feel that he knew 
better than I did, which was not good either for him or 
for me in our relation to each other. 

‘‘ This has been a fine old room once,” I said, look 
ing round the workshop. 

You can see it wasn’t a workshop always, sir. 
Many a grand dinner-party has sat down in this room 
when it was in its glory. Look at the chimney-piece 
there.” 

** I have been looking at it,” I said, going nearer. 

“ It represents the four quarters of the world, you see.” 

I saw strange figures of men and women, one on a 
Itneeling camel, one on a crawling crocodile, and others 


THE COFPIN. 


49 


differently mounted; with various besides of Nature’s 
bizarre productions creeping and flying in stone-carving 
over the huge fire-place, in which, in place of a fire, 
stood se/eral new and therefore brilliantly red cart- 
wheels. The sun shone through the upper part of a 
high window, of which many of the panes were broken, 
right in upon the cart-wheels, which, glowing thus in the 
chimney under the sombre chimney-piece, added to the 
grotesque look of the whole assemblage of contrasts. 
The coffin and the carpenter stood in the twilight occa- 
sioned by the sharp division of light made by a lofty 
wing of the house that rose flanking the other window. 
The room was still wainscotted in panels, which, I pre- 
sume, for the sake of the more light required for handi- 
craft, had been washed all over with white. At the level 
of labour they were broken in many places. Somehow 
or other, the whole reminded me of Albert Diirer’s 
“ Melencholia.” 

Seeing I was interested in looking about his shop, my 
new friend — for I could not help feeling that we should 
be friends before all was over, and so began to count 
him one already — resumed the conversation. He had 
never taken up the dropped thread of it before. 

“Yes, sir,” he said; “the owners of the place little 
thought it would come to this — the deals growing into a 
coffin there on the spot where the grand dinner was laid 
for them and their guests ! But there is another thing 
about it that is odder still ; my son is the last male ” 

Here he stopped suddenly, and his face grew very red. 
As suddenly he resumed — 

D 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


SO 


** I ’m not a gentleman, sir; but I will tell the truth. 
Curse it ! — I beg your pardon, sir,” — and here the old 
smile — “ I don’t think I got that from their side of the 
house. — My son’s not the last male descendant” 

Here followed another pause. 

As to the imprecation, I knew better than to take any 
notice of a mere expression of excitement under a sense 
of some injury with which I was not yet acquainted. If 
I could get his feelings right in regard to other and 
more important things, a reform in that matter would 
soon follow; whereas to make a mountain of a mole- 
hill would be to put that very mountain between him 
and me. Nor would I ask him any questions, lest I 
should just happen to ask him the wrong one ; for this 
parishioner of mine evidently wanted careful handling, 
if I would do him any good. And it will not do any 
man good to fling even the Bible in his face. Nay, a 
roll of bank-notes, which would be more evidently a 
good to most men, would carry insult with it if presented 
in that manner. You cannot expect people to accept 
before they have had a chance of seeing what the offered 
gift really is. 

After a pause, therefore, the carpenter had once more 
to recommence, or let the conversation lie. I stood in 
a waiting attitude. And while I looked at him, I was 
reminded of some one else whom I knew — with whom 
too, I had pleasant associations — though I could not in 
the least determine who that one might be. 

« It ’s very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger,” he 
resumed. 


THE corriN. 


5i 


« It is very kind and friendly of you,” I said, still 
tareful to make no advances. “ And you yourself be- 
long to the old family that once lived in this old house?” 

It would be no boast to tell the truth, sir, even if it 
were a credit to me, which it is not. That family hai 
been nothing but a curse to ours.” 

I noted that he spoke of that family as different from 
his, and yet implied that he belonged to it. The ex- 
planation would come in time. But the man was again 
silent, planing away at half the lid of his sister’s coffin. 
And I could not help thinking that the closed mouth 
meant to utter nothing more on this occasion. 

I am sure there must be many a story to tell about 
this old place, if only there were any one to tell them,” 
I said at last, looking round the room once more. — “ I 
think I see the remains of paintings on the ceiling.” 

“ You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says they were 
plain enough in his young days.” 

“ Is your father alive, then?” 

** That he is, sir, and hearty too, though he seldom 
goes out of doors now. Will you go up stairs and see 
him? He’s past ninety, sir. He has plenty of stories 
to tell about the old place — before it began to fall to 
pieces like.” 

** I won’t go to-day,” I said, partly because I wanted 
to be at home to \eceive any one who might call, and 
partly to secure an excuse for calling again upon the 
carpenter sooner than I should otherwise have liked to 
da “ I expect visitors myself, and it is time I were at 
borne. Good morning.” 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 




Good morning, sir.'* 

And away home I went with a new wonder in m) 
brain. The man did not seem unknown to me. I mean, 
the state of his mind woke no feeling of perplexity in 
me. I was certain of understanding it thoroughly when 
I had learned something of his history ; for that such a 
man must have a history of his own was rendered only 
the more probable from the fact that he knew something 
of the history of his forefathers, though, indeed, there 
ai*e some men who seem to have no other. It was 
strange, however, to think of that man working away at 
a trade in the very house in which such ancestors had 
eaten and drunk, and married and given in marriage. 
The house and family had declined together — in out- 
ward appearance at least ; for it was quite possible both 
might have risen in the moral and spiritual scale in 
proportion as they sank in the social one. And if 
any of my readers are at first inclined to think that this 
could hardly be, seeing that the man was little, if any- 
thing, better than an infidel, I would just like to hold 
one minute’s conversation with them on that subject 
A man may be on the way to the truth, just in virtue of 
his doubting. I will tell you what Lord Bacon says, 
and of all writers of English I delight in him ; So it is 
in contemplation : if a man will begin with certainties, 
he shall end in doubts ; but if he will be content to 
begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.” Now I 
could not tell the kind or character of this man’s doubt ; 
but it was evidently real and not affected doubt; and 
that was much in his favour And I could see that he 


THE COFFIll. 


53 


was a thinking man ; just one of the sort I thought 1 
should get on with in time, because he was honest 
— notmthstanding that unpleasant smile of his, which 
did irritate me a little, and partly piqued me into the 
determination to get the better of the man, if I possibly 
could, by making friends with him. At all events, here 
was another strange parishioner. And who could it be 
that he was like ? 


CHAPTER V. 

VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 



[HEN I came near my own gate I saw that il 
was open ; and when I came in sight of my 
own door, I found a carriage standing be- 
fore it, and a footman ringing the bell. It 
was an old-fashioned carriage, with two white horses in 
it, yet whiter by age than by nature. They looked as if 
no coachman could get more than three miles an hour 
out of them, they were so fat and knuckle-kneed. But 
my attention could not rest long on the horses, and 
I reached the door just as my housekeeper was pro- 
nouncing me absent There were two ladies in the 
carriage, one old and one young. 

Ah, here is Mr Walton !” said the old lady, in a 
serene voice, with a clear hardness in its tone ; and I 
held out my hand to aid her descent. She had pulled 
off her glove to get a card out of her card-case, and .so 
put the tips of two old fingers, worn very smooth, as if 


VISITORS FROM THB HALL. 


55 


polished with feeling what things were like, upon the 
palm of my hand. I then offered my hand to her com- 
panion, a girl apparently about fourteen, who took a 
hearty hold of it, and jumped down beside her with a 
smile. As I followed them into the house, I took their 
card from the housekeeper’s hand, and read, Mrs Old- 
castle and Miss Gladwyn, 

I confess here to my reader, that these are not really 
the names I read on the card. I made these up this 
minute. But the names of the persons of humble posi- 
tion in my story are their real names. And my reason 
for making the difference will be plain enough. You 
can never find out my friend Old Rogers; you might 
find out the people who called on me in their carriage 
with the ancient white horses. 

Wlien they were seated in the drawing-room, I said 
to the old lady — 

** I remember seeing you in church on Sunday morn- 
ing. It is very kind of you to call so soon.” 

‘‘You will always see me in church,” she returned, 
with a stiff bow, and an expansion of deadness on hei 
face, which I interpreted into an assertion of dignity, re 
suiting from, the implied possibility that I might have 
passed her over in my congregation, or might have for- 
gotten her after not passing her over. 

“ Except when you have a headache, grannie,” said 
Miss Gladwyn, with an arch look first at her grand- 
mother, and then at me. “ Grannie has bad headaches 
sometimes.” 

The deadness melted a little from Mrs Oldcastle’i 


56 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


face, as she turned with half a smile to her grandchild, 
and said — 

“ Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interest- 
ing fact to Mr Walton.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mrs Oldcastle,” I said. “ A 
clergyman ought io know something, and the more the 
better, of the troubles of his flock. Sympathy rs one oi 
die first demands he ought to be able to meet. — I know 
what a headache is.” 

The former expression, or rather non-expression, re- 
turned ; this time unaccompanied by a bow. 

“ I trust, Mr Walton, I trtisf I am above any morbid 
necessity for sympathy. But, as you say, amongst the 
poor of your flock, — it is very desirable that a clerg)nnan 
should be able to sympathise.” 

It *s quite true what grannie says, Mr Walton, though 
you mightn’t think it. When she has a headache, she 
shuts herself up in her own room, and doesn’t even let 
me come near her — nobody but Sarah ; and how she can 
prefer her to me, I ’m sure I don’t know.” 

And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle 
in her bright gray eye. 

“ The subject is not interesting to me. Pet. Pray, Mr 
Walton, is it a point of conscience with you to wear the 
surplice when you preach 1 ” 

** Not in the least,” I answered. ‘‘ I think I like it 
ratlier better on the whole. But that ’s not why I wear 
it’* 

“Never mind grannie, Mr Walton, /think the sur- 
plice is lovely. I ’m sure it *s much liker the wa} 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 


5 ) 


shall be dressed in heaven, though I don’t think I shall 
ever get there, if I must read the good books grannie 
reads.” 

I don’t know that it is necessary to read any good 
books but the good book,” I said. 

‘‘ There, grannie ! ” exclaimed Miss Gladwyn, trium* 
phantly. “ I ’m so glad I ’ve got Mr Walton on my 
dde ! ” 

“ Mr Walton is not so old as I am, my dear, and has 
much to learn yet.” 

I could not help feeling a little annoyed, (which was 
very foolish, I know,) and saying to myself, ‘‘If it’s to 
make me like you, I had rather not learn any more \ ” 
but I said nothing aloud, of course. 

“ Have you got a headache to-day, grannie 1 ” 

‘‘ No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr Walton why 
he wears the surplice.” 

“ Simply,” I replied, “ because I was told the people 
had been accustomed to it under my predecessor.” 

“ But that can be no good reason for doing what is 
not right — that people have been accustomed to it.” 

“ But I don’t allow that it ’s not right. I think it is a 
matter of no consequence whatever. If I find that the 
people don’t like it, I will give it up with pleasure.” 

“ You ought to have principles of your own, Mr 
Walton.” 

“ I hope I have. And one of them is, not to make 
mountains of molehills ; for a molehill is not a mountain. 
A man ought to have too much to do in obeying his con- 
science and keeping his soul’s garments clean, to rpind 


58 ANNALI or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIX 


whether he wears black or white when tel’.ing his flock 
that God loves them, and that they will never be happy 
till they believe it’* 

“ They may believe that too soon.** 

“ I don*t think any one can believe the truth too 
soon.” 

A pause followed, during which it became evident to 
me that Miss Gladwyn saw fun in the whole affair, and 
was enjoying it thoroughly. Mrs Oldcastle’s face, on 
the contrary, was illegible. She resumed in a measured 
still voice, which she meant to be meek, I daresay, but 
which was really authoritative — 

“ I am sorry, Mr Walton, that your principles are so 
loose and unsettled. You will see my honesty in saying 
so when you find that, objecting to the surplice, as I do, 
on Protestant grounds, I yet warn you against making 
any change because you may discover that your parish- 
ioners are against it You have no idea, Mr Walton, 
what inroads Radicalism, as they call it, has been mak- 
ing in this neighbourhood. It is quite dreadful Every- 
body, down to the poorest, claiming a right to think for 
himself, and set his betters right ! There *s one worse 
than any of the rest — but he *s no better than an atheist 
— a carpenter of the name of Weir, always talking to his 
neighbours against the proprietors and the magistrates, 
and the clergy too, Mr Walton, and the game-laws, and 
what notl And if you once show them that you are 
afraid of them by going a step out of vour way for their 
opinion about anything, there will be no end to it ; fb? 
the beginning of strife is like the letting out of water, as 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 


SI 


you know. / should know nothing about it, but that 
my daughter’s maid — I came to hear of it through her — 
a decent girl of the name of Rogers, and bom of decent 
parents, but unfortunately attached to the son of one of 
your churchwardens, who has put him into that mill on 
the river you can almost see from here.’* 

“ Who put him in the mill 1 ” 

His own father, to whom it belongs.” 

“ Well, it seems to me a very good match for her.” 

“ Yes, indeed, and for him too. But his foolish fathei 
thinks the match below him, as if there was any differ- 
ence between the positions of people in that rank of 
life ! Every one seems striving to tread on the heels of 
every one else, instead of being content with the station 
to which God has called them. I am content with 
mine. I had nothing to do with putting myself there. 
Why should they not be content with theirs? They 
need to be taught Christian humility and respect for 
their superiors. That ’s the virtue most wanted at pre- 
sent. The poor have to look up to the rich ” 

“ That ’s right, grannie I And the rich have to look 
down on the poor.” 

“ No, my dear. I did not say that The rich have 
to be kind to the poor.” 

‘‘But, grannie, why did you marry Mr Oldcastlel” 

“ What does the child mean ? ” 

“ Uncle Stoddart says you refused ever so many offen 
when you were a girl.” 

“ Uncle Stodd'art has no business to be talking about 
such things to a chit like you/’ tetumed the grandmothef^ 


6o 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


smiling, however, at the charge, which so far certainly 
contained no reproach. 

“And grandpapa was the ugliest and the richest o( 
them all — wasn’t he, grannie? and Colonel Markham 
the handsomest and the poorest ? ” 

A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady’s pale face. 
It looked dead no longer. 

“ Hold your tongue,” she said. “ You are rude.” 

And Miss Gladwyn did hold her tongue, but nothing 
else, for she was laughing all over. 

The relation between these two was evidently a very 
odd one. It was clear that Miss Gladwyn was a spoiled 
child, though I could not help thinking her very nicely 
spoiled, as far as I saw ; and that the old lady persisted 
in regarding her as a cub, although her claws had grown 
quite long enough to be dangerous. Certainly, if things 
went on thus, it was pretty clear which of them woula 
soon have the upper hand, for grannie was vulnerable, 
and Pet was not 

It really began to look as if there were none but 
characters in my parish. I began to think it must be 
the strangest parish in England, and to wonder that I 
had never heard of it before. “ Surely it must be in 
some story-book at least ! ” I said to myself. 

But her grand-daughter’s tiger-cat-play drove the old 
lady nearer to me. She rose and held out her hand, 
saying, with some kindness — 

“Take my advice, my dear Mr Walton, and don’t 
make too much of your poor, or they’ll soon be too 
Hfmch for you to manage. — Come, Pet ; it ’s time to gp 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 


6i 


home to lunch. — And for the surplice, take your own 
way and wear it. I shan’t say anything more about it” 

“ I will do what I can see to be right in the matter,* 

I answered as gently as I could ; for I did not want to 
quarrel with her, although I thought her both presump- 
tuous and rude. 

‘‘ I ’m on your side, Mr Walton,” said the girl, with a 
sweet comical smile, as she squeezed my hand once 
more. 

I led them to the carriage, and it was with a feeling of 
relief that I saw it drive off. 

The old lady certainly was not pleasant. She had a 
white smooth face over which the skin was drawn tight, 
gray hair, and rather lurid hazel eyes. I felt a repug- 
nance to her that was hardly to be accounted for by hei 
arrogance to me, or by her superciliousness to the poor \ 
although either would have accounted for much of it 
For I confess that I have not yet learned to bear pre- 
sumption and rudeness with all the patience and forgive- 
ness wi*h which I ought by this time to be able to meet 
them. And as to the poor, I am afraid I was always in 
seme danger of being a partizan of theirs against the 
rich; and that a clergyman ought never to be. And 
indeed the poor rich have more need of the care of the 
clergyman than the others, seeing it is hardly that the 
lich shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, and the 
poor have all the advantage over them in that respect. 

“ Still,” I said to myself, “ there must be some good 
in the woman— she cannot be altogether so hard as she 
looks, else how should that child dare to take the 


$2 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURROOD. 


liberties of a kitten with her? She doesn’t look to me 
like one to make game of ! However, I shall knov/ a 
little more about her when I return her call, and I will 
do my best to keep on good terms with her.” 

I took down a volume of Plato to comfort me after 
the irritation which my nerves had undergone, and sat 
down in an easy-chair beside the open window of my 
study. And with Plato in my hand, and all that out- 
side my window, I began to feel as if, after all, a man 
might be happy, even if a lady had refused him. And 
there I sat, without opening my favourite vellum-bound 
volume, gazing out on the happy world, whence a gentle 
wind came in, as if to bid me welcome with a kiss to 
all it had to give me. And then I thought of the wind 
that bloweth where it listeth, which is everywhere, and I 
quite forgot to open my Plato, and thanked God for the 
Life of life, whose story and whose words are in that 
best of books, and who explains everything to us, and 
makes us love Socrates and David and all good men 
ten times more ; and who follows no law but the law of 
love, and no fashion but the will of God ; for where did 
ever one read words less like moralising and more like 
simple earnestness of truth than all those of Jesus? 
And I prayed my God that He would make me able to 
speak good common heavenly sense to my people, and 
forgive me for feeling so cross and proud towards the 
unhappy old lady — for I was sure she was not happy — 
and make me into a rock which swallowed up the waves 
of wrong in its great caverns, and never threw them hi ck 
to swell the commotion of the angiy sea whence thev 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 




came. Ah, what it would be actually to annihilate 
wrong in this way ! — to be able to say, it shall not be 
wrong against me, so utterly do I forgive it! How 
much sooner, then, would the wrong-doer repent, and 
get rid of the wrong from his side also ! But the painful 
fact will show itself, not less curious than painful, that 
it is more difficult to forgive small wrongs than great 
ones. Perhaps, however, the forgiveness of the great 
wrongs is not so true as it seems. For do we not think 
it is a fine thing to forgive such wrongs, and so do it 
rather for our own sakes than for the sake of the wrong- 
doer ? It is dreadful not to be good, and to have bad 
ways inside one. 

Such thoughts passed through my mind. And once 
more the great light went up on me with regard to my 
office, namely, that just because I was parson to the 
parish, I must not be the person to myself. And I 
prayed God to keep me from feeling stung and proud, 
however any one might behave to me ; for all my value 
lay in being a sacrifice to Him and the people. 

So when Mrs Pearson knocked at the door, and told 
me that a lady and gentleman had called,. I shut my 
book which I had just opened, and kept down as well 
as I could the rising grumble of the inhospitable Eng 
lishman, who is apt to be forgetful to entertain strangers, 
at least in the parlour of his heart And I cannot count 
it perfect hospi'^.ality to be friendly and plentiful towards 
those whom you have invited to your house — ^what thank 
has a man in that ? — while you are cold and forbidding 
to those who have not that claim on your attention 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 




That is not to be perfect as our Father in heaven if 
perfect. By all means tell people, when you aie busy 
about something that must be done, that you cannot 
spare the time for them except they want you upon 
something of yet more pressing necessity ; but tell them, 
and do not get rid of them by the use of the instrument 
commonly called the cold shoulder. It is a wicked instru- 
ment that, and ought to have fallen out of use by this 
time. 

I went and received Mr and Miss Boulderstone, and 
was at least thus far rewarded — that the eerie feeling, as 
the Scotch would call it, which I had about my parish, 
as containing none but characters ^ and therefore not 
being ca7iniey was entirely removed. At least there was 
a wholesome leaven in it of honest stupidity. Please, 
kind reader, do not fancy I am sneering. I declare to 
you 1 think a sneer the worst thing God has not made. 
A curse is nothing in wickedness to it, it seems to me. 
I do mean that honest stupidity I respect heartily, and 
do assert my conviction that I do not know how Eng- 
land at least would get on without it. But I do not 
mean the stupidity that sets up for teaching itself to its 
neighbour, thinking itself wisdom all the time That I 
do not respect 

Mr and Miss Boulderstone left me a little fatigued, 
but in no way sore or grumbling. They only sent me 
back with additional zest to my Plato, of which I en- 
joyed a hearty page or two before any one else arrived. 
The only other visitors I had that day were an old sur- 
geon in the navy, who since his retirement had practised 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 


65 


for many years in the neighbourhood, and was still at 
the call of any one who did not think him too old- 
fashioned — for even hei the fashions, though decidedly 
elderly young ladies by the time they arrived, held their 
sway none the less imperiously — and Mr Brownrigg, the 
churchwarden. More of Dr Duncan by and by. 

Except Mr and Miss Boulderstone, I had not yet 
seen any common people. They were all decidedly 
uncommon, and, as regarded most of them, I could not 
think I should have any difficulty in preaching to them. 
For, whatever place a man may give to preaching in the 
ritual of the church — indeed it does not properly belong 
to the ritual at all — it is yet the part of the so-called 
service with which his personality has most to do. To 
the influences of the other parts he has to submit him 
self, ever turning the openings of his soul towards them, 
that he may not be a mere praying-machine; but with 
the sermon it is otherwise. That he produces. For 
that he is responsible. And therefore, I say, it was a 
great comfort to me to find myself amongst a people 
from which my spirit neither shrunk in the act of preach- 
ing, nor with regard to which it was likely to feel that it 
was beating itseT against a stone wall. There was some 
good in preaching to a man like Weir or Old Rogers. 
Whether there was any good in preaching to a woman 
like Mrs Oldcastle I did not know. 

The evening 1 thought I might give to my books, and 
thus end my first Monday in my parish; but, as I said. 
Mr Brownrigg, the churchwarden, called and stayed a 
whole weary hour, talking about matters quite unin* 


66 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


teresting to any who may hereafter peruse what I am 
now writing. Really he was not an interesting man ; 
short, broad, stout, red-faced, with an immense amount 
of mental inertia, discharging itself in constant lingual 
activity about little nothings. Indeed, when there was 
no new nothing to be had, the old nothing would do 
over again to make a fresh fuss about. But if you 
attempted to convey a thought into his mind which 
involved the moving round half a degree from where he 
stood, and looking at the matter from a point even so 
far new, you found him utterly, totally impenetrable, as 
pachydermatous as any rhinoceros or behemoth. One 
other corporeal fact I could not help observing, was, 
that his cheeks rose at once from the collar of his green 
coat, his neck being invisible, from the hollow between 
it and the jaw being filled up to a level. The conforma- 
tion was just what he himself delighted to contemplate 
in his pigs, to which his resemblance was greatly in- 
creased by unwearied endeavours to keep himself close 
shaved. — I could not help feeling anxious about his son 
and Jane Rogers. — He gave a quantity of gossip about 
various people, evidently anxious that I should regard 
them as he regarded them ; but in all he said concerning 
them I could scarcely detect one point of significance as 
to character or history. I was very glad indeed when 
the waddling of hands — for it was the perfect imbecility 
of hand-shaking — was over, and he was safely out of the 
gate. He had kept me standing on the steps for full 
five minutes, and I did not feel safe from him till I was 
once more in my study with the door shut 


VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 




I am not going to try my reader’s patience with any- 
thing of a more detailed account of my introduction to 
my various parishioners. I shall mention them only as 
they come up in the course of my story. Before many 
days had passed I had found out my poor, who, I 
thought, must be somewhere, seeing the Lord had said 
we should have them with us always. There was a 
workhouse in the village, but there were not a great 
many in it; for the poor were kindly enough handled who 
belonged to the place, and were not too severely com- 
pelled to go into the house ; though, I believe, in this 
house they would have been more comfortable than 
they were in their own houses. 

I cannot imagine a much greater misfortune for a 
mar., not to say a clergyman, than not to know, or 
knowing, not to minister to any of the poor. And I 
did not feel that I knew in the least where I was until I 
had found out and conversed with almost the whole of 
mine. 

After I had done so, I began to think it better to 
return Mrs Oldcastle’s visit, though I felt greatly dis- 
inclined to encounter that tight-skinned nose again, and 
that mouth whose smile had no light in it, except when 
it responded to some nonsense of her grand-daughter’s. 


CHAPTER VL 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 



BCUT noon, on a lovely autumn day^ 1 set 
out for Oldcastle Hall. The keenness ol 
the air had melted away with the heat of the 
sun, yet still the air was fresh and invigorat- 
ing. Can any one tell me why it is that, when the eartli 
is renewing her youth in the spring, man should feel 
feeble and low-spirited, and gaze with bowed head, 
though pleased heart, on the crocuses ; whereas, on the 
contrary, in the autumn, when nature is dying for the 
winter, he feels strong and hopeful, holds his head erect, 
and walks with a vigorous step, though the flaunting 
dahlias discourage him greatly? I do not ask for t ^'1 
physical causes : those I might be able to find out for 
myself; but I ask, Where is the rightness and fitness in 
the thing ? Should not man and nature go together in 
this world which was made for man — not for science, 
but for man? Perhaps I have some glimmering.s o 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


«9 


where the answer lies. Perhaps “ I see a cherub that 
sees it” And in many of our questions we have to be 
content with such an approximation to an answer as 
this. And for my part I am content with this. With 
less, I am not content 

Whatever that answer may be, I walked over the old 
Gothic bridge with a heart strong enough to meet Mrs 
Oldcastle without flinching. I might have to quarrel 
with her — I could not tell : she certainly was neither 
safe nor wholesome. But this I was sure of, that I 
would not quarrel with her without being quite certain 
that I ought. I wish it were never one’s duty to quar- 
rel with anybody : I do so hate it. But not to do it 
sometimes is to smile in the devil’s face, and that no ^ 

one ought to do. However, I had not to quarrel this 
time. 

The woods on the other side of the river from my 
house, towards which I was now walking, were of the 
most sombre rich colour — sombre and rich, like a life 
that has laid up treasure in heaven, locked in a casket 
of sorrow. I came nearer and nearer to them through 
the village, and approached the great iron gate with the 
antediluvian monsters on the top of its stone pillars. 

And awful monsters they were — are still ! I see the tail 
of one of them at this very moment. But they let me 
tliiough very quietly, notwithstanding their evil looks ; 1 
thought they were saying to each other across the top ol . 
the gate, “ Never mind ; he ’ll catch it soon enough.” 

But, as I said, I did not catch it that day ; and I could 
not have caught it that day ; it was too lovely a day to 


JO 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


catch any hurt even from that most hurtful of all beings 
under the sun, an unwomanly woman. 

I wandered up the long winding road, through the 
woods which I had remarked flanking the meadow on 
my first walk up the river. These woods smelt so 
sweetly — their dead and dying leaves departing in sweet 
odours — that they quite made up for the absence of tlie 
flowers. And the wind — no, there was no wind — there 
was only a memory of wind that woke now and then in 
the bosom of the wood, shook down a few leaves, like 
the thoughts that flutter away in sighs, and then was still 
again. 

I am getting old, as I told you, my friends. (See 
there, you seem my friends already. Do not despise an 
old man because he cannot help loving people he never 
saw or even heard of.) I say I am getting old — (is it 
but or therefore f I do not know which) — but, therefore, 
I shall never forget that one autumn day in those grandly 
lading woods. 

Up the slope of the hillside they rose like one great 
rainbow-billow of foliage — bright yellow, red-rusty and 
bright fading green, all kinds and shades of brown and 
purple. Multitudes of leaves lay on t ae sides of the 
path, so many that I betook myself to my old childisl* 
amusement of walking in them without lifting my feet 
driving whole armies of them with ocean-like rustling 
.before me. I did not do so as I came back. I walked 
in the middle of the way then, and I remember stepping 
over many single leaves, in a kind of mechanico-merciful 
way, as if they had been living creatures — as indeed who 


OLDCA.STLE HALL. 


7 * 


can tell but they are, only they must be pretty nearly 
dead when they are on the ground. 

At length the road brought me up to the house. It 
did not look such a large house as I have since found it 
to be. And it certainly was not an interesting house 
from the outside, though its surroundings of green grass 
and trees would make any whole beautiful. Indeed the 
house itself tried hard to look ugly, not quite succeed- 
ing, only because of the kind foiling of its efforts by the 
Virginia creepers and ivy, which, as if ashamed of its 
staring countenance, did all they could to spread their 
hands over it and hide it. But there was one charming 
group of old chimneys, belonging to some portion be- 
hind, which indicated a very different, namely, a very 
much older, face upon the house once — a face that had 
passed away to give place to this. Once inside, I found 
there were more remains of the olden time than I had 
expected. I was led up one of those grand square oak 
staircases, which look like a portion of the house to be 
dwelt in, and not like a ladder for getting from one part 
of the habitable regions to another. On the top was a 
fine expanse of landing, another hall, in fact, from which 
I was led towards the back oi the house by a narrow 
passage, and shown into a small dark drawing-room 
with a deep stone-mullioned window, wainscoted in oak 
simply carved and panelled. Several doors around in- 
dicated communication with other parts of the house. 
Here I found Mrs Oldcastle, reading what I judged to 
be one of the cheap and gaudy religious books of the 
present day She rose and received me, and having mo 


7 * 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


tioned me to a seat, began to talk about the parish 
You would have perceived at once from her tone tha! 
she recognised no other bond of conne xion between ui 
but the parish. 

“ I hear you have been most kind in visiting the poor, 
Mr Walton. You must take care that they don’t take 
advantage of your kindness, though. I assure you, you 
will find some of them very grasping indeed. And you 
need not expect that they will give you the least credit 
for good intentions.” 

“ I have seen nothing yet to make me uneas} on that 
score. But certainly my testimony is of no weight yet.” 

‘‘ Mine is. I have proved them. The poor of this 
neighbourhood are very deficient in gratitude.” 

** Yes, grannie, ” 

I started. But there was no interruption, such as I 
have made to indicate my surprise ; although, when I 
looked half round in the direction whence the voire 
came, the words that followed were all rippled with a 
sweet laugh of amusement. 

“ Yes, grannie, you are right You remember how 
old dame Hope wouldn’t take the money you oft'ered 
her, and dropped such a disdainful courtesy. It v/as sv 
greedy of her, wasn’t it?” 

“ I am sorry to hear of any disdainful reception of 
kindness,” I said. 

“ Yes, and she had the coolness, within a fortnight, to 
send up to me and ask if I would be kind enough to 
lend her half-a-crown for a few weeks.” 

** And then it was your turn, grannie ! You sent hei 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


7J 


five shillings, didn’t you 1 — Oh no ; I’m wrong. That 
was the other woman.” 

“ Indeed, I did not send her anything but a rebuke. 
I told her that it would be a very wrong thing in me to 
contribute to the support of such an evil spirit of un- 
Ihankfulness as she indulged in. When she came to see 
her conduct in its tme light, and confessed that she had 
behaved very abominably, I would see what I could do 
for her.” 

“And meantime she was served out, wasn’t shel 
With her sick boy at home, and nothing to give him V* 
said Miss Gladwyn. 

“ She made her own bed, and had to lie on it” 

“ Don’t you think a little kindness might have had 
more effect in bringing her to see that she was wrong.” 

“ Grannie doesn’t believe in kindness, except to me — 
dear old grannie ! She spoils me. I ’m sure I shall lx. 
ungrateful some day ; and then she ’ll begin to read me 
long lectures, and prick me with all manner of headless 
pins. But I won’t stand it, I can tell you, grannie ! I ’m 
too much spoiled for that” 

Mrs Oldcastle was silent — ^why, I could not tell, except 
it was that she knew she had no chance of quieting the 
girl in any other way. 

I may mention here, lest I should have no opportunity 
ifterwards, that I inquired of dame Hope as to her 
version of the story, and found that there had been a 
great misunderstanding, as I had suspected. She was 
really in no want at the time, and did not feel that it 
would be quite honourable to take the money when sha 


74 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


did not need it — (some poor people are capable of such 
reasoning) — and so had refused it, not without a feeling 
at the same time that it was more pleasant to refuse than 
to accept from such a giver; some stray sparkle of which 
feeling, discovered by the keen eye of Miss Gladwyn, 
may have given that appearance of disdain to her cour- 
tesy to which the girl alluded. When, however, her boy 
in service was brought home ill, she had sent to ask for 
what she now required, on the very ground that it had 
been offered to her before. The misunderstanding had 
arisen from the total incapacity of Mrs Oldcastle to 
enter sympathetically into the feelings of one as superior 
to herself in character as she was inferior in worldly 
condition. 

But to return to Oldcastle Hall. 

I wished to change the subject, knowing that blind 
defence is of no use. One must have definite points for 
lefence, if one has not a thorough understanding of the 
character in question ; and I had neither. 

“ This is a beautiful old nouse, ** I said. ‘‘ There must 
be strange places about it.’* 

Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at least did 
not reply, befoFe Miss Gladwyn said — 

“ Oh, Mr Walton, have you looked out of the window 
yet? You don’t know what a lovely place this is, if you 
haven’t” 

And as she spoke she emerged from a recess in the 
room, a kind of dark alcove, where she had been amus- 
ing henelf with what I took to be some sort of puzzle, 
but which I found afterwards to be the bit and curb 


OLDCASTLE HALl* 


7S 


chain of her pon/s bridle which she was polishing up 
to her own bright mind, because the stable-boy had not 
pleased her in the matter, and she wanted both to get 
them brilliant and to shame the lad for the future. I 
followed her to the window, where I was indeed as much 
surprised and pleased as she could have wished. 

“ There !” she said, holding back one of the dingy 
heavy curtains with her small childish hand. 

And there, indeed, I saw an astonishment. It did 
not lie in the lovely sweeps of hill and hollow stretching 
away to the horizon, richly wooded, and — though I saw 
none of them — sprinkled, certainly with sweet villages 
full of human thoughts, loves, and hopes; the astonish- 
ment did not lie in this — though all this was really much 
more beautiful to the higher imagination — but in the fact 
that, at the first glance, I had a vision properly belonging 
to a rugged or mountainous country. For I had ap- 
proached the house by a gentle slope, which certainly 
was long and winding, but had occasioned no feeling in 
my mind that I had reached any considerable height. 
And I had come up that one beautiful staircase; no 
more; and yet now, when I looked from this window, I 
found myself on the edge of a precipice — not a very 
deep one, certainly, yet with all the effect of many a 
deeper. For below the house on this side lay a great 
hollow, with steep sides, up which, as far as they could 
reach, the trees were climbing. The sides were not all 
so steep as the one on which the house stood, but they 
were all rocky and steep, with here and there slopes of 
green grass. And down in the bottom, in the centre of 


76 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


the hollow, lay a pool of water. I knew it only by its 
Siaty shimmer through the fading green of the tree-tops 
between me and it. 

“There I” again exclaimed Miss Gladwyn; “isn’t that 
beautifuH But you haven’t seen the most beautiful 
thing yet. Grannie, where ’s — ah ! there she is ! There ’s 
auntie ! Don’t you see her down there, by the side of 
the pond] That pond is a hundred feet deep. If 
auntie were to fall in she would be drowned before you 
could jump down to get her out Can you swim]” 

Before I had time to answer, she was off again. 

“ Don’t you see auntie down there]” 

“No, I don’t see her. I have been trying very hard, 
but I can’t.” 

“ Well, I daresay you can’t. Nobody, I think, has 
got eyes but myself. Do you see a big stone by the 
edge of the pond, with another stone on the top of it, 
like a big potato with a little one grown out of it]” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, auntie is under the trees on the opposite side 
from that stone. Do you see her yet ]” 

“No.” 

“ Then you must come down with me, and I will in 
troduce you to her. She ’s much the prettiest thing here. 
Much prettier than grannie.” 

Here she looked over her shoulder at grannie, who, 
instead of being angry, as, from what I had seen on ou^ 
former interview, I feared she would be, only said, with- 
out even looking up from the little blue-boarded book 
she was again reading — 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


77 


“ You are a saucy child.” 

Whereupon Miss Gladwyn laughed merrily. 

Come along,” she said, and, seizing me by the hand, 
led me out of the room, down a back-staircase, across a 
piece of grass, and then down a stair in the face of the 
rock, towards the pond below. The stair went in zigzags, 
and, although rough, was protected by an iron balus- 
trade, without which, indeed, it would have been very 
dangerous. 

“ Isn’t your grandmamma afraid to let you run up and 
down here. Miss Gladwyn 1” I said. 

“ Me!” she exclaimed, apparently in the utmost sur- 
prise. ‘‘ That would be fun ! For, you know, if she 
tried to hinder me — but she knows it ’s no use ; I taught 
her that long ago — let me see, how long : oh ! I don^t 
know — I should think it must be ten years at least. I 
ran away, and they thought I had drowned myself in the 
pond. And I saw them, all the time, poking with a long 
stick in the pond, which, if I had been drowned there, 
never could have brought me up, for it is a hundred feet 
deep, I am sure. How I hurt my sides trying to keep 
from screaming with laughter ! I fancied I heard one say 
to the other, ‘ We must wait till she swells and floats'!’” 

Dear me ! what a peculiar child ! ” I said to myself. 

And yet somehow, whatever she said — even when she 
was most rude to her grandmother — she was never offen- 
sive. No one could have helped feeling all the time 
that she was a little lady. — I thought I would venture a 
question with her. I stood still at a turn of the zigzag, 
and looked down into the hollow, still a good way be 


78 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


low US, where I could now distinguish the form, on the 
opposite side of the pond, of a woman seated at the foot 
of a tree, and stooping forward over a book. 

“ May I ask you a question. Miss Gladwynl” 

“ Yes, twenty, if you like ; but I won’t answer one oi 
them till you give up calling me Miss Gladwyn. We 
can’t be friends, you know, so long as you do that.” 

“ What am I to call you, then 1 I never heard you 
called by any other name than Pet, and that would 
hardly do, would it?” 

“ Oh, just fancy if you called me Pet before grannie ! 
That ’s grannie’s name for me, and nobody dares to use 
it but grannie — not even auntie ; for, between you and 
me, auntie is afraid of grannie ; I can’t think why. I 
never was afraid of anybody — except, yes, a little afraid 
of old Sarah. She used to be my nurse, you know ; and 
grandmamma and everybody is afraid of her, and that ’s 
just why I never do one thing she wants me to do. It 
would never do to give in to being afraid of her, you 
know. — There *s auntie, you see, down there, just where 
I told you before.” 

‘‘ Oh yes I I see her now. — What does your aunt call 
you, then?” 

‘‘Why, what you must call me — my own name, o< 
course.” 

“What is that?” 

“Judy.” 

She said it in a tone which seemea to indicate sur 
prise that I should not know her name — ^perhaps read 
it off her face, as one ought to know a flower’s name bv 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


79 


looking at it. But she added instantly, glancing up in 
my face most comically — 

“ I wish yours was Punch." 

‘‘Why, Judy r' 

“ It would be such fun, you know." 

“Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is 
your aunt’s name V* 

“ Oh, such a funny name ! — much funnier than Judy : 
Ethelwyn. It sounds as if it ought to mean something, 
doesn’t it?” 

“ Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt.” 

“ What does it mean ?” . 

“ I ’m not sure about that I will try to find out 
when I go home — if you would like to know.” 

“ Yes, that I should. I should like to know every- 
thing about auntie. Ethelwyn. Isn’t it pretty ? ” 

“So pretty that I should like to know something 
more about Aunt Ethelwyn. What is her other name ?” 

“Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else 
could it be ? 

“ Why, you know, for anything I knew, Judy, it might 
have been Gladwyn. She might have been your father’s 
sister.” 

“ Might she ? I never thought of that. Oh, I sup- 
pose that is because I never think about my father. 
And now I do think of it, I wonder why nobody ever 
mentions him to me, or my mother either. But I often 
think auntie must be thinking about my mother. Some- 
thing in her eyes, when they are sadder than usual 
seem? to remind me pf my mothpi:.^’ 


8o 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“You remember your mother, thenl*^ 

“ No, I don’t think I ever saw her. But I Ve answered 
plenty of questions, haven’t II I assure you, if you 
want to get me on to the Catechism, 1 don’t know a 
word of it Come along.” 

I laughed. 

“What !” she said, pulling me by the hand, “you a 
clergyman, and laugh at the Catechism ! I didn’t know 
that” 

“ I ’m not laughing at the Catechism, Judy. I 'm only 
laughing at the idea of putting Catechism questions to 
you.” 

“ You know I didn’t mean it,” she said, with some in- 
dignation. 

“ I know now,” I answered. “ But you haven’t let 
me put the only question I wanted to put” 

“ What is it?” 

“ How old are you?” 

“ Twelve. Come along.” 

And away we went down the rest of the stair. 

When we reached the bottom, a winding path led us 
through the trees to the side of the pond, along which 
we passed to get to the other side. 

And then all at once the thought struck me — why 
was it that I had never seen this auntie, with the lovely 
name, at church ? Was she going to turn out another 
strange parishioner? 

There she sat, intent on her book. As we drew near 
she looked up and rose, but did not come forward. 

“ Aunt Winnie, here ’s Mr Walton,” said Judy. 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


8i 


I lifted my hat and held out my hand. Before oui 
hands met, however, a tremendous splash reached my 
ears from the pond. I started round. Judy had van- 
ished. I had my coat half off, and was rushing to the 
pool, when Miss Oldcastle stopped me, her face un- 
moved, except by a smile, saying, “ It ^s only one of that 
frolicsome child’s tricks, Mr Walton. It is well for you 
that I was here, though. Nothing would have delighted 
her more than to have you in the water too.” 

“ But,” I said, bewildered, and not half comprehend- 
ing, “ where is she 1 ” 

“There,” returned Miss Oldcastle, pointing to the 
pool, in the middle of which arose a heaving and bub- 
bling, presently yielding passage to the laughing face of 
Judy. 

“ Why don’t you help me out, Mr Walton ? You said 
you could swim.” 

“No, I did not,” I answered coolly. “You talked 
so fast, you did not give me time to say so.” 

“ It ’s very cold,” she ret arned. 

“ Come out, Judy dear,” said her aunt. “ Run home 
and change your clothes. There ’s a dear.” 

Judy swam to the opposite side, scrambled out, and 
was off like a spaniel through the trees and up the stairs, 
dripping and raining as she went. 

“ You must be very much astonished at the little 
creature, Mr Walton.” 

“ I find her very interesting. Quite a study.” 

“There never was a child so spoiled, and never a 
child on whom it took less effect to hurt her. I suppose 

F 


82 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


such things do happen sometimes. She is really a good 
girl ; though mamma, who has done all the spoiling, will 
not allow me to say she is good.” 

Here followed a pause, for, Judy disposed of, what 
should I say next ? And the moment her mind turned 
from Judy, I saw a certain stillness — not a cloud, but 
the shadow of a cloud — come over Miss Oldcastle’s face, 
as if she, too, found herself uncomfortable, and did not 
know what to say next. I tried to get a glance at the 
book in her hand, for I should know something about 
her at once if I could only see what she was reading. 
She never came to church, and I wanted to arrive at 
some notion of the source of her spiritual life ; for that 
she had such, a single glance at her face was enough to 
convince me. This, I mean, made me even anxious to 
see what the book was. But I could only discover that 
it was an old book in very shabby binding, not in the 
least like the books that young ladies generally have in 
their hands. 

And now my readers will possibly be thinking it odd 
that I have never yet said a word about what either 
Judy or Miss Oldcastle was like. If there is one thing 
I feel more inadequate to than another, in taking upon 
me to relate — it is to describe a lady. But I will tiy 
the girl first 

Judy was rosy, gray -eyed, auburn - haired, sweet- 
mouthed. She had confidence in her chin, assertion 
in her nose, defiance in her eyebrows, honesty and 
friendliness over all her face. No one, evidently, could 
have a warmer friend ; and to an enemy she would be 


OLDCASTLE HALL. 


<3 


dangerous no longer than a fit of passion might last 
There was nothing acrid in her ; and the reason, I pre* 
sume, was, that she had never yet hurt her conscience. 
That is a very different thing from saying she had never 
done wrong, you know. She was not tall, even for her 
age, and just a little too plump for the immediate sug- 
gestion of grace. Yet every motion of the child would 
have been graceful, except for the fact that impulse was 
always predominant, giving a certain jerkiness, like the 
hopping of a bird, instead of the gliding of one motion 
into another, such as you might see in the same bird on 
the wing. 

There is one of the ladies. 

But the other — how shall I attempt to describe her 1 

The first thing I felt was, that she was a lady-woman. 
And to feel that is almost to fall in love at first sight. 
And out of this whole, the first thing you distinguished 
would be the grace over all. She was rather slender, 
rather tall, rather dark-haired, and quite blue-eyed. But 
I assure you it was not upon that occasion that I 
found out the colour of her eyes. I was so taken 
with her whole that I knew nothing about her parts. 
Yet she was blue-eyed, indicating northern extraction 
— some centuries back perhaps. That blue was the 
blue of the sea that had sunk through the eyes of 
some sea-rover’s wdfe and settled in those of her child, 
to be born when the voyage was over. It had been 
dyed so deep ingrayne^ as Spenser would say, that it 
had never been worn from the souls of the race since, 
and so was ever^ now and then shining like heavei 


84 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


out at some of its eyes. Her features were what is 
called regular. They were delicate and brave. — After 
the grace, the dignity was the next thing you came to 
discover. And the only thing you would not have liked, 
you would have discovered last. For when the shine of 
the courtesy with which she received me had faded 
away, a certain look of negative haughtiness, of with- 
drawal, if not of repulsion, took its place, a look of con- 
sciousness of her own high breeding — a pride, not of 
life, but of circumstance of life, which disappointed me 
in the midst of so much that was very lovely. Her 
voice was sweet, and I could have fancied a tinge of 
sadness in it, to which impression her slowness of 
speech, without any drawl in it, contributed. But I 
am not doing well as an artist in describing her so fully 
before my reader has become in the least degree inter- 
ested in her. I was seeing her, and no words can make 
him see her. 

Fearing lest some such fancy as had possessed Jud)* 
should be moving in her mind, namely, that I was, ft 
not exactly going to put her through her Catechism, yet 
going in some way or other to act the clergyman, I has- 
tened to speak. 

‘‘This is a most romantic spot. Miss Oldcastle,’’ I 
said ; “ and as surprising as it is romantic. I could 
hardly believe my eyes when I looked out of the window 
and saw it first.” 

“ Your surprise was the more natural that the place 
itself is not properly natural, as you must have dis 
covered.*" 


OLDCASTLS HALL. 


85 


This was rather a remarkable speech for a young lady 
to make. I answered — 

“ I only know that such a chasm is the last thing I 
should have expected to find in this gently undulating 
country. That it is artificial I was no more prepared 
to hear than I was to see the place itself.” 

It looks pretty, but it has not a very poetic origin,” 
she returned. “ It is nothing but the quarry out ot 
which the old house at the top of it was built” 

“ I must venture to differ from you entirely in the 
aspect such an origin assumes to me,” I said. “It 
seems to me a more poetic origin than any convulsion 
of nature whatever would have been ; for, look you,” I 
said — being as a young man too much inclined to the 
didactic, “ for, look you,” I said — and she did look at 
me — “ from that buried mass of rock has arisen this 
living house with its histories of ages and generations ; 
and” 

Here I saw a change pass upon ner face : it grew 
almost pallid. But her large blue eyes were still fixed 
on mine. 

“ And it seems to me,” I went on, “ that such a chasm 
made by the uplifting of a house therefrom, is therefore 
in itself more poetic than if it were even the mouth of 
in extinct volcano. For, grand as the motions and 
deeds of Nature are, terrible as is the idea of the fiery 
heart of the earth breaking out in convulsions, yet here 
is something greater; for human will, human thought, 
human hands in human labour and effort, have all been 
employed to build this house, making not only the house 


86 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


beautiful, but the place whence it came beautiful too. 
It stands on the edge of what Shelley would call its 
' antenatal tomb ’ — now beautiful enough to be its mother 
— filled from generation to generation ” 

Her face had grown still paler, and her lips moved as 
if she would speak; but no sound came from them. I 
had gone on, thinking it best to take no notice of her 
paleness ; but now I could not help expressing concern. 

“ I am afraid you feel ill. Miss Oldcastle.” 

‘‘Not at all,” she answered, more quickly than she 
had yet spoken. 

“This place must be damp,” I said. “I fear you 
have taken cold.” 

She drew herself up a little haughtily, thinking, no 
doubt, that after her denial I was improperly pressing 
the point. So I drew back to the subject of our con- 
versation. 

“ But I can hardly think,” I said, “ that all this mass 
of stone could be required to build the house, large as it 
is. A house is not solid, you know.” 

“No,” she answered. “The original building was 
more of a castle, with walls and battlements. I can 
show you the foundations of them still ; and the picture, 
too, of what the place used to be. We are not what we 
were then. Many a cottage, too, has been built out of 
this old quarry. Not a stone has been taken from it for 
the last fifty years, though. Just let me show you one 
thing, Mr Walton, and then I must leave you.” 

“ Do not let me detain you a moment. I will go at 
once,” I said; “though, if you would allow me, 1 should 


OLDCASTLE ifALL. 


87 


be more at ease if I might see you safe at the top of the 
stair first.” 

She smiled 

‘‘Indeed, I am notill,” she answered; “bu I have 
duties to attend to. Just let me show you this, .md then 
you shall go with me back to mamma.” 

She led the way to the edge of the pond and looked 
into it. I followed, and gazed down into its depths, till 
my sight was lost in them. I could see no bottom to 
the rocky shaft 

“ There is a strong spring down there,” she said 
“ Is it not a dreadful place ? Such a depth !” 

“Yes,” I answered; “but it has not the horror of 
dirty water; it is as clear as crystal. How does the 
surplus escapa]” 

“ On the opposite side of the hill you came up there 
IS a well, with a strong stream from it into the river.” 

“ I almost wonder at your choosing such a place to 
read in. I should hardly like to be so near this pond,” 
said I, laughing. 

“Judy has taken all that away. Nothing in nature, 
and everything out of it, is strange to Judy, poor child J 
But just look down a little way into the water on tliia 
side. Do you see anything?” 

“ Nothing,” I answered. 

“Look again, against the wall of the pond,” she 
said 

“I see a kind of arch or opening in the side,” I 
answered. 

“ I'hat is what I wanted you to see. Now, do you 


88 


ANNALS OF A QUIKT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


see a little barred window, there, in the face of the rock^ 
through the trees V* 

** 1 cannot say I do,” I replied. 

"No. Except you know where it is — and even then 
— ^it is not so easy to find it I find it by certain trees.*' 

"What is it?” 

" It is the window of a little room in the rock, from 
which a stair leads down through the rock to a sloping 
passage. That is the end of it you see under the water.” 

" Provided, no doubt,” I said, " in case of siege, to 
procure water,” 

"Most likely; but not, therefore, confined to that 
purpose. There are more dreadful stories than I can 
bear to think of” 

Here she paused abruptly, and began anew 

" As if that house had brought death and doom 

out of the earth with it. There was an old burial-ground 
here before the Hall was built.” 

“ Have you ever been down the stair you speak of?” 
I asked. 

“ Only part of the way,** she answered. " But Judy 
knows every step of it. If it were not that the door at 
the top is locked, she would have dived through that 
archway now, and been in her own room in half the 
time. The child does not know what fear means.” 

We now moved away from the pond, towards the side 
of the quarry and the open-air stair-case, which I thought 
must be considerably more pleasant than the other. I 
confess I longed to see the gleam of that water at 
bottom of the dark sloping passage, though. 


OLDCASTLE HALI. 


9q 


Miss Oldcastle accompanied me to the room where I 
had left her mother, and took her leave with merely a 
bow of farewell I saw the old lady glance sharply from 
her to me as if she were jealous of what we might have 
been talking about. 

“ Grannie, are you afraid Mr Walton has been saying 
pretty things to Aunt Winnie ? I assure you he is not 
of that sort He doesn’t understand that kind of thing. 
But he would have jumped into the pond after me and 
got his death of cold if auntie would have let him. It 
was cold I think I see you dripping now, Mr Walton.” 

There she was in her dark comer, coiled up on a 
couch, and laughing heartily ; but all as if she had done 
nothing extraordinary. And, indeed, estimated either by 
her own notions or practices, what she had done was 
not in the least extraordinary. 

Disinclined to stay any longer, I shook hands with 
the grandmother, with a certain invincible sense of slime, 
and with the grandchild with a feeling of mischievous 
health, as if the girl might soon corrupt the clergyman 
into a partnership in pranks as well as in friendship. 
She followed me out of the room, and danced before 
me down the oak staircase, clearing the portion from 
the first landing at a bound. Then she turned and 
waited for me, who came very deliberately, feeling the 
insure contact of sole and wax. As soon as I reached 
her, she said, in a half-whisper, reaching up towards me 
on tiptoe — 

** Isn’t she a beauty 1” 

♦'Who] your grandmamma]” I rammed* 


90 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


She gave me a little push, her face glowing with fun. 
But I did not expect she would take her revenge as she 
did, 

“ Yes, of course,” she answered, quite gravely. “ Isn't 
she a beauty?” 

And then, seeing that she had put me hors de combat^ 
she burst into loud laughter, and, opening the hall-door 
for me, let me go without another word. 

I went home very quietly, and, as I said, stepping 
Brith curious care — of which, of course, I did not think 
at the time — over the yellow and brown leaves that lay 
in the middle of the road 


CHAPTER Vn. 


THE bishop's basin. 

WENT home very quietly, as I say, thinking 
about the strange elements that not only 
combine to make life, but must be combined 
in our idea of life, before we can form a true 
theory about it Now-a-days, the vulgar notion of what 
is life-like in any annals is to be realised by sternly ex 
eluding everything but the commonplace; and the means, 
at least, are often attained, with this much of the end as 
well — that the appearance life bears to vulgar minds is 
represented with a wonderful degree of success. But I 
believe that this is, at least, quite as unreal a mode of 
representing life as the other extreme, wherein the un- 
likely, the romantic, and the uncommon predominate. 
I doubt whether there is a single history — if one could 
only get at the whole of it — in which there is not a con- 
siderable admixture of the unlikely become fact, includ- 
ing a few strange coincidences; of the uncommon, 



ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 




which, although striking at first, has grown common 
from familiarity with its presence as our own ; with even, 
at least, some one more or less rosy touch of what we 
call the romantic. My own conviction is, that the 
poetry is far the deepest in us, and that the prose is 
only broken-down poetry ; and likewise that to this our 
lives correspond. The poetic region is the tnie one, 
and just, therefore^ the incredible one to the lower ordei 
of mind; for although every mind is capable of the 
tiuth, or rather capable of becoming capable of the 
truth, there may lie ages between its capacity and the 
truth. As you will hear some people read poetry so 
that no mortal could tell it was poetry, so do some 
people read their own lives and those of others. 

I fell into these reflections from comparing in my own 
mind my former experiences in visiting my parishioners 
with those of that day. True, I had never sat down to 
talk with one of them without finding that that man or 
that woman had actually a history, the most marvellous 
and important fact to a human being ; nay, I had found 
something more or less remarkable in every one of their 
histories, so that I was more than barely interested in 
each of them. And as I made more acquaintance with 
them, (for I had not been in the position, or the disposi- 
tion either, before I came to Marshmallows, necessary 
to the gathering of such experiences,) I came to the 
conclusion — not that I had got into an extraordinary 
parish of characters — but that every pansh must be 
more or less extraordinary from the same cause. Why 
did I not use tP 3ee such people about me before I 


THE bishop’s basin. 


93 


Surely I had undergone a change of some sort. Could 
it be, that the trouble I had been going through of late, 
had opened the eyes of my mind to the understanding, 
or rather the simple seeing, of my fellow-men ? 

But the people among whom I had been to-day be- 
longed rather to such as might be put into a romantic 
story. Certainly I could not see much that was roman- 
tic ir the old lady ; and yet, those eyes and that tight- 
skinned face — what might they not be capable of in the 
working out of a story 1 And then the place they lived 
in ! Why, it would hardly come into my ideas of a 
nineteenth-century country parish at all. I was tempted 
to try to persuade myself that all that had happened, 
since I rose to look out of the window in the old house, 
had been but a dream. For how could that wooded 
dell have come there after all 1 It was much too large 
for a quarry. And that madcap girl — she never flung 
herself into the pond! — it could not be. And what 
could the book have been that the lady with the sea -blue 
eyes was reading? AVas that a real book at all? No, 
Yes. Of course it was. But what was it ? What had 
that to do with the matter ? It might turn out to be a very 
commonplace book after all. No ; for commonplace 
books are generally new, or at least in fine bindings. 
And here was a shabby little old book, such as, if it had 
been commonplace, would not have been likely to be the 
companion of a young lady at the bottom of a quarry — 

“ A savage place, as holy and enchanted 
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon lover .” 


H 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOU RHOOE 


I know all this will sound ridiculous, especially that 
quotation from Kubla Khan coming after the close of 
the preceding sentence ; but it is only so much the more 
like the jumble of thoughts that made a chaos of my 
mind as I went home. And then for that terrible pool, 
and subterranean passage, and all that — what had it all 
to do with this broad daylight, and these dying autumn 
leaves? No doubt there had been such places. No 
doubt there were such places somewhere yet. No doubt 
this was one of them. But, somehow or other, it would 
not come in well. I had no intention of going in for — 
that is the phrase now — going in for the romantic. I 
would take the impression off by going to see Weir the 
carpenter’s old father. Whether my plan was successful 
or not, I shall leave my reader to judge. 

I found Weir busy as usual, but not with a coffin this 
time. He was working at a window-sash. ‘‘Just like 
life,” I thought — tritely perhaps. “ The other day he 
was closing up in the outer darkness, and now he is let- 
ting in the light.” 

‘‘ It ’s a long time since you was here last, sir,” he 
said, but without a smile. 

Did he mean a reproach ? If so, I was more glad of 
that reproach than I would have been of the warmest 
welcome, even from Old Rogers. The fact was that, 
having a good deal to attend to besides, and willing at 
the same time to let the man feel that he was in no 
danger of being bored by my visits, I had not made use 
even of my reserve in the shape of a visit to his father. 

“ Well,” I answered, “ I wanted to know something 


THE bishop’s basin. 


9$ 


about all my people, before I paid a second visit to any 
of them.” 

“ All right, sir. Don^t suppose I meant to complain. 
Only to let you know you was welcome, sir.” 

“ I 've just c^me from my first visit to Oldcastle Hall. 
And, to tell the truth, for I don’t like pretences, my visit 
to-day was not so much to you as to your father, whom, 
perhaps, I ought to have called upon before, only I was 
afraid of seeming to intrude upon you, seeing we don’t 
exactly think the same way about some things,” I added 
— with a smile, I know, which was none the less genuine 
that I remember it yet. 

And what makes me remember it yet 1 It is the smile 
that lighted up his face in response to mine. For it was 
more than I looked for. And his answer helped to fix 
the smile in my memory. 

“ You made me think, sir, that perhaps, after all, we 
were much of the same way of thinking, only perhaps 
you was a long way ahead of me.” 

Now the man was not right in saying that we were 
much of the same way of thinking; for our opinions 
could hardly do more than come within sight of each 
other ; but what he meant was right enough. For I was 
certain, from the first, that the man had a regard for the 
downright, honest way of things, and I hoped that I too 
had such a regard. How much of selfishness and ol 
pride in one’s own judgment might be mixed up with it, 
both in his case and mine, I had been too often taken 
in — by myself, I mean — to be at all careful to discrimi- 
nate, provided there was a proportion of real honesty 


j>6 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


along with it, which, I felt sure, would ultimately elimi* 
Date the other. For in the moral nest, it is not as with 
the sparrow and the cuckoo. Tne right, the original 
inhabitant is the stronger; and, however unlikely at any 
given point in the history it may be, the sparrow will 
grow strong enough to heave the intruding cuckoo over- 
board. So I was pleased that the man should do me 
the honour of thinking I was right as far as he could see, 
which is the greatest honour one man can do another; 
for it is setting him on his own steed, as the eastern 
tyrants used to do. And I was delighted to think that 
the road lay open for further and more real communion 
between us in time to come. 

“ Well,” I answered, “ I think we shall understand 
each other perfectly before long. But now I must see 
your father, if it is convenient and agreeable.” 

“ My father will be delighted to see you, I know, sir. 
He can’t get so far as the church on Sundays; but you’ll 
find him much more to your mind than me. He ’s been 
putting ever so many questions to me about the new 
parson, wanting me to try whether I couldn’t get more 
out of you than the old parson. That ’s the way we talk 
ibout you, you see, sir. You ’ll understand. And I ’ve 
never told him that I ’d been to church since you came 
— I suppose from a bit of pride, because I had so long 
refused to go ; but I don’t doubt some of the neighbours 
have told him, for he never speaks about it now. And 
I know he ’s been looking out for you ; and I fancy he ’s 
begun to wonder that the parson was going to see every- 
body but him. It will be a pleasure to the old man, siii 


THE bishop’s basin. 


97 


for he don't see a great many to talk to; and he ’s fond 
of a bit of gossip, is the old man, sir.” 

So saying, Weir led the way through the shop into a 
lobby behind, and thence up what must have been a 
back-stair of the old house, into a large room over the 
workshop. There were bits of old carving about the 
walls of the room yet, but, as in the shop below, all had 
been whitewashed. At one end stood a bed with chintz 
curtains and a warm-looking counterpane of rich faded 
embroidery. There was a bit of carpet by the bedside, 
and another bit in front of the fire ; and there the old 
man sat, on one side, in a high-backed not very easy- 
looking chair. With a great effort he managed to rise 
as I approached him, notwithstanding my entreaties that 
he would not move. He looked much older when on 
his feet, for he was bent nearly double, in which posture 
the marvel was how he could walk at all. For he did 
totter a few steps to meet me, without even the aid of a 
stick, and, holding out a thin, shaking hand, welcomed 
me with an air of breeding rarely to be met with in his 
station in society. But the chief part of this polish 
sprung from the inbred kindliness of his nature, which 
was manifest in the expression of his noble old coun- 
tenance. Age is such a different thing in different 
natures ! One man seems to grow more and more self- 
ish as he grows older; and in another the slow fire of 
time seems only to consume, with fine, imperceptible 
gradations, the yet lingering selfishness in him, letting 
tlie light of the kingdom, which the Lord says is within, 
•hine out more and more, as the husk grows thin and is 


98 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD). 


ready to fall off, that the man, like the seed sown, maj 
pierce the earth of this world, and rise into the pure ail 
and wind and dew of the second life. The face of a 
loving old man is always to me like a morning moon, 
reflecting the yet unrisen sun of the other world, yet 
fading before its approaching light, until, when it does 
rise, it pales and withers away from our gaze, absorbed 
in the source of its own beauty. This old man, you 
may see, took my fancy wonderfully, for even at this 
distance of time, when I am old myself, the recollection 
of his beautiful old face makes me feel as if I could 
wTite poetry about him. 

“ I ^m blithe to see ye, sir,” said he. ** Sit ye down, 
sir.” 

And, turning, he pointed to his own easy-chair; and 
I then saw his profile. It was delicate as that of Dante, 
which in form it marvellously resembled. But all the 
sternness which Dante’s evil times had generated in his 
prophetic face was in this old man’s replaced by a sweet 
ness of hope that was lovely to behold. 

“ No, Mr Weir,” I said, “ I cannot take your chair. 
The Bible tells us to rise up before the aged, not to turn 
them out of their seats.” 

“ It would do me good to see you sitting in my cheer 
sir. The pains that my son Tom there takes to keep ii 
up as long as the old man may want it ! It ’s a good 
thing I bred him to the joiner’s trade, sir. Sit ye down, 
sir. The cheer’ll hold ye, though I warrant it won’t 
last that long after I be gone home. Sit ye down, sir.” 

Thus entreated, I hesitated no longer, but took the 


THE BISHOP^S BASIN. 


Of 


old man’s seat. His son brought another chair for him, 
and he sat down opposite the fire and close to me. 
Thomas then went back to his work, leaving us alone. 

'‘YeVe had some speech wi’ my son Tom,” said 
the old man, the moment he was gone, leaning a little 
towards me. “ It ’s main kind o’ you, sir, to take up 
kindly wi’ poor folks like us.” 

“You don’t say it’s kind of a person to do what he 
likes best,” I answered. “ Besides, it ’s my duty to know 
all my people.” 

“ Oh yes, sir, I know that But there ’s a tnousand 
ways ov doin’ the same thing. I ha’ seen folks, parsons 
and others, ’at made a great show ov bein’ friendly to 
the poor, ye know, sir; and all the time you could see, 
or if you couldn’t see you could tell without seein’, that 
they didn’t much regard them in their hearts ; but it was 
a sort of accomplishment to be able to talk to the poor, 
like, after their own fashion. But the minute an ould 
man sees you, sir, he believes that you mean it, sir, what- 
ever it is. For an ould man somehow comes to know 
things like a child. They call it a second childhood, 
don’t they, sir ? And there are some inings worth growin’ 
a child again to get a hould ov again.” 

“ I only hope what you say may be true — about me, 
I mean.” 

“ Take my word for it, sir. You have no idea how 
that boy of mine, Tom there, did hate all the clergy till 
you come. Not that he’s anyway favourable to them 
yet, only he ’ll say nothin’ again’ you, sir. He *s got an 
anfoitunate gift o’ seein* all the faults first, sir; and 


too 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


vhen a man is that way given, the faults always hides 
the other side, so that there *s nothing but faults to be 
seen.” 

“ But I find Thomas quite open to reason.” 

“ That ’s because you understand him, sir, and know 
how to give him head. He tould me of the talk you 
had with him. You don’t bait him. You don’t say, 

‘ You must come along wi’ me,’ but you turns and goes 
along wi’ him. He’s not a bad fellow at all, is Tom; 
but he will have the reason for every think. Now J 
never did want the reason for everything. I was con- 
tent to be tould a many things. But Tom, you see, he 
was born with a sore bit in him somewheres, I don’t 
rightly know wheres ; and I don’t think he rightly knows 
what ’s the matter with him himself.” 

I dare say you have a guess though, by this time, 
Mr Weir,” I said ; “ and I think I have a guess too.” 

‘‘ Well, sir, if he ’d only give in, I think he would be 
far happier. But he can’t see his way clear.” 

** You must give him time, you know. The fact is, he 
doesn’t feel at home yet And how can he, so long as 
he doesn’t know his own Father?” 

' I ’m not sure that I rightly understand you,” said the 
o\d man, looking bewildered and curious. 

“ I mean,” I answered, “ that till a man knows that 
lic. is one of God’s family, living in God’s house, with 
God up-stairs, as it were, while he is at his work oi his 
play in a nursery below-stairs, he can’t feel comfortable. 
For a man could not be made that should stand alon^ 
like some of the beasts. A man must feel a head over 


THE bishop’s basin. 


lOl 


him, because he's not enough to satisfy himself, yoB 
know. Thomas just wants faith; that is, he wants to 
feel that there is a loving Father over him, who is doing 
things all well and right, if we could only understand 
them, though it really does not look like it sometimes.” 

“ Ah, sir, I might have understood you well enough, 
if my poor old head hadn’t been started on a wrong 
track. For I fancied for the moment that you were just 
putting your finger upon the sore place in Tom’s mind. 
There’s no use in keeping family misfortunes from a 
friend like you, sir. That boy has known his father all 
his life; but I was nearly half his age before I knew 
mine.” 

“ Strange ! ” I said, involuntarily almost 

“ Yes, sir ; strange you may well say. A strange story • 
it is. The Lord help my mother ! I beg yer pardon, 
sir. I ’m no Catholic. But that prayer will come of it- 
self sometimes. As if it could be of any use now ! God 
forgive me ! ” 

“ Don’t you be afraid, Mr Weir, as if God was ready 
to take offence at what comes naturally, as you say. An 
ejaculation of love is not likely to offend Him who is so 
grand that He is always meek and lowly of heart, and 
whose love is such that ours is a mere faint light — ‘a 
little glooming light much like a shade’ — as one of our 
own poets says, beside it.” 

“ Thank you, Mr Walton. That ’s a real comfortable 
word, sir. And I am heart-sure it ’s true, sir. God be 
praised for evermore ! He is good, sir ; as I have 
known in my poor time, sir. I don’t believe there evei 


102 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


was one that just lifted his eyes and looked iip’ards, in 
stead of looking down to the ground, that didn^t get 
some comfort, to go on with, as it were — the ready- 
money of comfort, as it were — though it might be none 
to put in the bank, sir.” 

“That’s true enough,” I said. “Then your father 
and mother 

And here I hesitated. 

“ W<ye never married, sir,” said the old man promptly, 
as if he would relieve me from an embarrassing position. 
“ / couldn’t help it And I ’m no less the child of my 
Father in heaven for it. For if He hadn’t made me, I 
couldn’t ha* been their son, you know, sir. So that He 
had more to do wi’ the makin’ o’ me than they had ; 
though mayhap, if He had His way all out, I might ha’ 
been the son o’ somebody else. But, now that things 
be so, I wouldn’t have liked that at all, sir ; and bein’ 
once born so, I would not have e’er another couple of 
parents in all England, sir, though I ne’er knew one o’ 
them. And I do love my mother. And I ’m so sorry 
for my father that I love him too, sir. And if I could 
only get my boy Tom to think as I do, I would die like 
a psalm-tune on an organ, sir.” 

“ But it seems to me strange,” I said, “ that your son 
should think so much of what is so far gone by. Surely 
he would not want another father than you, now. He 
is used to his position in life. And there can be nothing 
cast up to him about his birth or descent.” 

“ That *3 all very true, sir, and no doubt it would be 
M you say. But there has been other things to keey 


THE bishop's basin. 


los 


his mind upon the old affair. Indeed, sir, we have had 
the same misfortune all over again among the young 
people. And I mustn’t say anything more about it; 
only my boy Tom has a sore heart.” 

I knew at once to what he alluded ; for I could not 
l*ave been about in my parish all this time without learn- 
ing that the strange handsome woman in the little shop 
was the daughter of Thomas Weir, and that she was 
neither wife nor widow. And it now occurred to me for 
the first time that it was a likeness to her little boy that 
had affected me so pleasantly when I first saw Thomas, 
his grandfather. The likeness to his great-grandfather, 
which I saw plainly enough, was what made the other 
fact clear to me. And at the same moment I began to 
be haunted with a flickering sense of a third likeness 
which I could not in the least fix or identify. 

“ Perhaps,” I said, “ he may find some good corns 
out of that too.” 

“ Well, who knows, sir ] ” 

“ I think,” I said, that if we do evil that good may 
come, the good we looked for will never come thereby. 
But once evil is done, we may humbly look to Him who 
bringeth good out of evil, and wait. Is your grand- 
daughter Catherine in bad health ] She looks so deli- 
cate !” 

She always had an uncommon look. But what she 
looks like now, I don’t know. I hear no complaints ; 
but siie has never crossed this door since we got her set 
up in that shop. She never comes near her father or 
her sister, though she lets them, leastways her sister, go 


104 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


and see her. I^hi afraid Tom has been rayther iin 
merciful with her. And if ever he put a bad name upon 
her in her hearing, I know, from what that lass used tc 
be as a young one, that she wouldn’t be likely to forget 
it, and as little likely to get over it herself, or pass it 
over to another, even her own father. 1 don’t believe 
they do more nor nod to one another when they meet 
in the village. It ’s well even if they do that much. It ’s 
my belief there ’s some people made so hard that they 
never can forgive anythink.” 

“How did she get into the trouble? Who is the 
father of her child?” 

“ Nay, that no one knows for certain ; though there 
be suspicions, and one of them, no doubt, correct But, 
I believe, fire wouldn’t drive his name out at her mouth. 
I know my lass. When she says a thing, she ’ll stick 
to it” 

I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, 
the old man went on. 

“ I shan’t soon forget the night I first heard about my 
father and mother. That was a night ! The wind was 
roaring like a mad beast about the house; — not this 
house, sir, but the great house over the way.” 

“ You don’t mean Oldcastle Hall?” I said. 

“ ’Deed I do, sir,” returned the old man. “ This 
house here belonged to the same family at one time ; 
though when I was bom it was another branch of the 
family, second cousins or something, that lived in it 
But even then it was something on to the downhill road, 
1 believe.” 


THE bishop’s basin. 


lO) 


“ But,” I said, fearing my question might have turned 
the old man aside from a story worth hearing, “ nevei 
mind all that now, if you please. I am anxious to heai 
all about that night. Do go on. You were saying the 
wind was blowing about the old house.” 

“ Eh, sir, it was roaring ! — roaring as if it was mad 
with rage ! And every now and then it would come 
down the chimley like out of a gun, and blow the smoke 
and a’most the fire into the middle of the housekeeper’s 
room. For the housekeeper had been giving me my 
.supper. I called her auntie, then; and didn’t know a 
bit that she wasn’t my aunt really. I was at that time a 
kind of a under-gamekeeper upon the place, and slept 
over the stable. But I fared of the best, for I was a 
favourite with the old woman — I suppose because I had 
given her plenty of trouble in my time. That ’s always 
the way, sir. — Well, as I was a-saying, when the wind 
stopped for a moment, down came the rain with a noise 
that sounded like a regiment of cavalry on the turnpike 
road t’other side of the hill. And then up the wind got 
again, and swept the rain away, and took it all in its 
own hand again, and went on roaring worse than ever. 
‘ You ’ll be wet afore you get across the yard, Samuel/ 
said auntie, looking very prim in her long white apron, 
as she sat on the other side of the little round table 
before the fire, sipping a drop of hot rum and water, 
which she always had before she went to bed ‘ You ’ll 
be wet to the skin, Samuel,* she said. ‘ Never mind/ 
says I. ‘I’m not salt, nor yet sugar; and I ’ll be going, 
auntie, for you’ll be wanting your bed.’ — ‘Sit ye still,’ 


to6 


ANNALS OF A QUIFT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


said she. ‘ I don’t want my bed yet’ And there she 
sat, sipping at her rum and water ; and there I sat, o’ 
the other side, drinking the last of a pint of October, 
she had gotten me from the cellar — for I had been out 
in the wind all day. ‘ It was just such a night as this,’ 
said she, and then stopped again. — But I’m wearying 
you, sir, with my long story.” 

** Not in the least,” I answered. “ Quite the contrary. 
Pray tell it out your own way. You won’t tire me, I 
assure you.” 

So the old man went on. 

“ ‘ It was just such a night as this,’ she began again — 
‘leastways it was snow and not rain that was coming 
down, as if the Almighty was a-going to spend all His 
winter-stock at oncet’ — ‘ What happened such a night, 
auntie?’ I said. ‘ Ah, my lad!’ said she, ‘ye may well 
ask what happened. None has a better right. You 
happened. That ’s all.’ — ‘ Oh, that ’s all, is it, auntie ?’ 
I said, and laughed. ‘ Nay, nay, Samuel,’ said she, quite 
solemn, ‘ what is there to laugh at, then ? I assure you, 
you was anything but welcome.’ — ‘And why wasn’t I 
welcome?’ I said. ‘I couldn’t help it, you know. I’m 
very sorry to hear I intruded,’ I said, still making game 
of it, you see; for I always did like a joke. ‘Well,’ she 
•aid, ‘ you certainly wasn’t wanted. But I don’t blame 
you, Samuel, and I hope you won’t blame me.’ — ‘ What 
you mean, auntie ?’ ‘I mean this, that it ’s my fault, 
if 80 be that fault it is, that you ’re sitting there now, and 
not lying, in less bulk by a good deal, at the bottom of 
the Bishop’s Basin.’ That ’s what they call a deep pond 


THE bishop’s basin. 


«o? 


at the foftt of the old house, sir; though why or where- 
fore, I 'm sure I don’t know. ‘ Most extraordinary, 
auntie ! ’ I said, feeling very queer, and as if I really had 
no business to be there. ‘ Never you mind, my dear,* 
says she; ‘there you are, and you can take care of your- 
self now as well as anybody.’ — ‘But who wanted to 
drown me V ‘ Are you sure you can forgive him, if I 
tell you?’ — ‘Sure enough, suppose he was sitting where 
you be now,’ I answered. ‘ It was, I make no doubt, 
though I can’t prove it, — I am morally certain it was 
your own father.’ I felt the skin go creepin* together 
upon my head, and I couldn’t speak. ‘Yes, it was; 
child; and it’s time you knew all about it Why, you 
don’t know who your own father was !’ — ‘No more I do,’ 
I said ; ‘ and I never cared to ask, somehow. I thought 
it was all right, I suppose. But I wonder now that I 
never did.’ — ‘ Indeed you did many a time, when you 
was a mere boy, like; but I suppose, as you never was 
answered, you give it up for a bad job, and forgot all 
about it, like a wise man. You always was a wise child, 
Samuel.’ So the old lady always said, sir. And I was 
willing to believe she was right, if I could. ‘ But now,* 
said she, ‘ it ’s time you knew all about it — Poor Miss 
Wallis ! — I ’m no aunt of yours, my boy, though I love 
you nearly as well, I think, as if I was; for dearly did I 
love your mother. She was a beauty, and better than 
she was beautiful, whatever folks may say. The only 
wrong thing, I ’m certain, that she ever did, was to trust 
youi father too much. But I must see and give you the 
story right through from beginning to end. — Miss Wallis, 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


io8 


as I came to know from her own lips, was the daughtel 
of a country attorney, who had a good practice, and was 
likely to leave her well off. Her mother died when she 
was a little girl. It’s not easy getting on without a 
mother, my boy. So she wasn’t taught much of the best 
sort, I reckon. When her father died early, and she 
was left alone, the only thing she could do was to take 
a governess’s place, and she came to us. She never got 
on well with the children, for they were young and self 
willed and rude, and would not learn to do as they were 
bid. I never knew one o’ them shut the door when they 
went out of this room. And, from having had all her 
own way at home, with plenty of servants, and money 
to spend, it was a sore change to her. But she was a 
sweet creature, that she was. She did look sorely tried 
when Master Freddy would get on the back of her chair, 
and Miss Gusta would lie down on the rug, and never 
stir for all she could say to them, but only laugh at her. 
— To be sure !’ And then auntie would take a sip at 
her rum and water, and sit considering old times like a 
statie. And I sat as if all my head was one great ear, 
and 1 never spoke a word. And auntie began again. 
‘ The way I came to know so much about her was this. 
Nobody, you see, took any notice or care of her. For 
the children were kept away with her in the old house, 
and my lady wasn’t one to take trouble about anybody 
till once she stood in her way, and then she would just 
shove her aside or crush her like a spider, and ha’ done 
with her.’ — They have always been a proud and a fierce 
race, the Oldcastles, sir,” said Weir, taking up the speech 


THE bishop’s basin. 


109 


in his own person, “ and there ’s been a deal o’ breedin 
in-and-in amongst them, and that has kept up the worst 
of them. The men took to the women of their own sort 
somehow, you see. The lady up at the old Hall now is 
a Crowfoot. I ’ll just tell you one thing the gardener 
told me about her years ago, sir. She had a fancy for 
hyacinths in her rooms in the spring, and she had some 
particular fine ones; and a lady of her acquaintance 
begged for some of them. And what do you think she 
did? She couldn’t refuse them, and she couldn’t bear 
any one to have them as good as she. And so she sent 
the hyacinth-roots — but she boiled ’em first. The gar- 
dener told me himself, sir. — ‘And so, when the poor 
thing,’ said auntie, ‘was taken with a dreadful cold, 
which was no wonder if you saw the state of the window 
in the room she had to sleep in, and which I got old Jones 
to set to rights and paid him for it out of my own pocket, 
else he wouldn’t ha’ done it at all, for the family wasn’t too 
much in the way or the means either of paying their debts 
— well, there she was, and nobody minding her, and ol 
course it fell to me to look after her. It would have 
made your heart bleed to see the poor thing flung all ot 
a heap on her bed, blue with cold and coughing. “ My 
dear ! ” I said ; and she burst out crying, and from that 
moment there was confidence between us. I made her 
as warm and as comfortable as I could, but I had to nurse 
her for a fortnight before she was able to do anything 
again. She didn’t shirk her work though, poor thing. 
It was a heartsore to me to see the poor young thing, 
vith her sweet eyes and her pale face, talking away to 


no 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


those children, that were more like wild cats than humau 
beings. She might as well have talked to wild cats, I ’m 
sure. But I don’t think she was ever so miserable again 
as she must have been before her illness ; for she used 
often to come and see me of an evening, and she would 
sit there where you are sitting now for an hour at a time, 
without speaking, her thin white hands lying folded in 
her lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire. I used to 
wonder what she could be thinking about, and I had 
made up my mind she was not long for this world ; 
when all at once it was announced that Miss Oldcastle, 
who had been to school for some time, was coming 
home ; and then we began to see a great deal of com- 
pany, and for month after month the house was more or 
less filled with visitors, so that my time was constantly 
taken up, and I saw much less of poor Miss Wallis than 
I had seen before. But when we did meet on some of 
the back stairs, or when she came to my room for a few 
minutes before going to bed, we were just as good 
friends as ever. And I used to say, “ I wish this scurry 
was over, my dear, that we might have our old times 
again.” And she would smile and say something sweet. 
But I was surprised to see that her health began to 
come back — at least so it seemed to me, for her eyes 
grew brighter and a flush came upon her pale face, and 
though the children were as tiresome as ever, she didn’t 
.seem to mind it so much. But indeed she had not 
very much to do with them out of school hours nowj 
for when the spring came on, they would be out and 
•bout the place with their sistet or one of their brother? j 


THE bishop’s basin. 


Ilf 


and indeed, out of doors it would have been impossible 
for Miss Wallis to do anything with them. Some of the 
visitors would take to them too, for they behaved so 
badly to nobody as to Miss Wallis, and indeed they 
were clever children, and could be engaging enough 
when they pleased* — But then I had a blow, Samuel 
It was a lovely spring night, just after the sun was 
down, and I wanted a drop of milk fresh from the cow 
for something that I was making for dinner the next 
day j so I went through the kitchen-garden and through 
the belt of young larches to go to the shippen. But 
when I got among the trees, who should I see at the 
other end of the path that went along, but Miss Wallis 
walking arm-in-arm with Captain Crowfoot, who was just 
home from India, where he had been with Lord Clive. 
The captain was a man about two or three and thirty, 
a relation of the family, and the son of Sir Giles Crow- 
foot’ — who lived then in this old house, sir, and had but 
that one son, my father, you see, sir. — ‘ And it did give 
me a turn,’ said my aunt, ‘ to see her walking with him, 
for I felt as sure as judgment that no good could come 
of it. For the captain had not the best of characters — 
that is, when people talked about him in chimney 
corners, and such like, though he was a great favourite 
with everybody that knew nothing about him. He was 
a fine, manly, handsome fellow, with a smile that, as 
people said, no woman could resist, though I ’m sure it 
would have given me no trouble to resist it, whatevei 
they may mean by that, for I saw that that same smih 
was the falsest thing of all the false things about him 


12 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


All the time he was smiling, you would have thought he 
was looking at himself in a glass. He was said to have 
gathered a power of money in India, somehow or other. 
But I don’t know, only I don’t think he would have 
been the favourite he was with my lady if he hadn’t. 
And reports were about, too, of the ways and means by 
which he had made the money ; some said by robbing 
the poor heathen creatures ; and some said it was only 
that his brother officers didn’t approve of his speculating 
as he did in horses and other things. I don’t know 
whether officers are so particular. At all events, this 
was a fact, for it was one of his own servants that told 
me, not thinking any harm or any shame of it. He had 
quarrelled with a young ensign in the regiment. On 
which side the wrong was, I don’t know. But he first 
thrashed him most unmercifully, and then called him 
out, as they say. And when the poor fellow appeared, 
he could scarcely see out of his eyes, and certainly 
couldn’t take anything like an aim. And he shot him 
dead, did Captain Crowfoot.’ — Think of hearing that 
about one’s own father, sir ! But I never said a word, 
for I hadn’t a word to say. — ‘Think of that, Samuel,’ 
said my aunt, ‘ else you won’t believe what I am going 
to tell you. And you won’t even then, I dare say. But I 
must tell you, nevertheles* and notwithstanding. — Well, 
I felt as if the earth was sinking away from under the 
feet of me, and I stood and stared at them. And they 
came on, never seeing me, and actually went close past 
me and never saw me; at least, if he saw me he took no 
notice, for I don’t suppose that the angel with the flam 


THE bishop’s basin. 


113 


ing sword would have put him out. But for her, I know 
she didn’t see me, for her face was down, burning and 
smiling at once.’ — I ’m an old man now, sir, and I never 
saw my mother ; but I can’t tell you the story without 
feeling as if my heart would break for the poor young 
lady. — ‘ I went back to my room,’ said my aunt, ‘ with 
my empty jug in my hand, and I sat down as if I had 
had a stroke, and I never moved till it was pitch dark 
and my fire oub It was a marvel to me afterwards that 
nobody came near me, for everybody was calling after 
me at that time. And it was days before I caught a 
glimpse of Miss Wallis again, at least to speak to her. 
At last, one night she came to my room ; and without a 
moment of parley, I said to her, “ Oh, my dear ! what 
was that wretch saying to you ? ” — “ What wretch ? ” says 
she, quite sharp like. ‘‘Why, Captain Crowfoot,” says 
I, “ to be sure.” — “ What have you to say against Cap 
tain Crowfoot r* says she, quite scornful like. So I 
tumbled out all I had against him in one breath. She 
turned awful pale, and she shook from head to foot, but 
she was able for all that to say, “ Indian servants are 
known liars, Mrs Prendergast,” says she, “ and I don’t 
believe one word of it all. But I ’ll ask him, the next 
time I see him.” — “ Do so, my dear,” I said, not fearing 
for myself, for I knew he would not make any fuss that 
might bring the thing out into the air, and hoping that 
it might lead to a quarrel between them. And the next 
time I met her, Samuel — it was in the gallery that takes 
to the west turret — she passed me with a nod just, and 
a blush instead of a smile on her sweet face. And I 

H 


114 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


didn’t blame her, Samuel ; but I knew that that villain 
had gotten a hold of her. And so I could only cry, and 
that I did. Things went on like this for some months 
The captain came and went, stopping a week at a time. 
Then he stopped for a whole month, and this was in the 
first of the summer; and then he said he was ordered 
abroad again, and went away. But he didn’t go abroad. 
He came again in the autumn for the shooting, and 
began to make up to Miss Oldcastle, who had grown a 
fine young woman by that time. And then Miss Wallis 
began to pine. The captain went away again. Before 
long I was certain that if ever young creature was in a 
consumption, she was; but she never said a word to 
me. How ever the poor thing got on with her work, I 
can’t think, but she grew weaker and weaker. I took 
the best care of her she would let me, and contrived 
that she should have her meals in her own room ; but 
something was between her and me that she never 
spoke a word about herself, and never alluded to the 
captain. By and by came the news that the captain 
and Miss Oldcastle were to be married in the spring. 
And Miss Wallis took to her bed after that; and my 
lady said she had never been of much use, and wanted 
to send her away. But Miss Oldcastle, who was far 
superior to any of the res in her disposition, spoke 
up for her. She had been to ask me about her, and I 
told her the poor thing must go to a hospital if she was 
sent away, for she had ne’er a home to go to. And 
then she went to see the governess, poor thing ! and 
spoke very kindly to her; but never a word would Miss 


THE bishop’s basin. 


IIS 


Wallis answer; she only stared at her with great, big, wild- 
like eyes. And Miss Oldcastle thought she was out of 
her mind, and spoke of an asylum. But I said she hadn’t 
long to live, and if she would get my lady her mother to 
consent to take no notice, I would take all the care and 
trouble of her. And she promised, and the poor thing 
was left alone. I began to think myself her mind must 
be going, for not a word would she speak, even to me, 
though every moment I could spare I was up with her 
in her room. Only I was forced to be careful not to be 
out of the way when my lady wanted me, for that would 
have tied me more. At length one day, as I was settling 
her pillow for her, she all at once threw her arms about 
my neck, and burst into a terrible fit of crying. She 
sobbed and panted for breath so dreadfully, that I put 
my arms round her and lifted her up to give her relief ; 
and when I laid her down again, I whispered in her ear, 
“ I know now, my dear. 1 ’ll do all I can for you.’ 
She caught hold of my hand and held it to her lips, and 
then to her bosom, and cried again, but more quietly, 
and all was right between us once more. It was well 
for her, poor thing, that she could go to her bed. And 
I said to myself, “Nobody need ever know about it; 
and nobody ever shall if I can help it.” To tell the 
truth, my hope was that she would die before there 
was any need for further concealment. But people in 
that condition seldom die, they say, till all is over ; and 
so she lived on and on, though plainly getting weaker 
and weaker. — At the captain’s next visit, the wedding- 
‘’^ay was fixed. And after that a circumstance came 


Il6 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


about that made me uneasy. A Hindoo servant — the 
captain called him his nigger always — had been con 
stantly in attendance upon him. I never could abide 
the snake-look of the fellow, nor the noiseless way he 
went about the house. But this time the captain had a 
Hindoo woman with him as well. He said that his 
man had fallen in with her in London; that he had 
known her before; that she had come home as nurse 
with an English family, and it would be very nice for 
his wife to take her back with her to India, if she could 
only give her house room, and make her useful till after 
the wedding. This was easily arranged, and he went 
away to return in three weeks, when the wedding was 
to take place. Meantime poor Emily grew fast worse, 
and how she held out with that terrible cough of hers 1 
never could understand — and spitting blood, too, every 
other hour or so, though not very much. And now, to 
my great trouble, with the preparations for the wedding, 
I could see yet less of her than before ; and when Miss 
Oldcastle sent the Hindoo to ask me if she might not 
sit in the room with the poor girl, I did not know how 
to abject, though I did not at all like her being there. 
I felt a great mistrust of the woman somehow or other. 
I never did like blacks, and I never shall. So she went, 
and sat by her, and waited on her very kindly — at least 
poor Emily said so. I called her Emily because she had 
begged me, that she might feel as if her mother were with 
her, and she was a child again. I had tried before to 
find out from her when greater care would be necessary, 
but she couldn’t tell me anything. I doubted even if 


THE bishop's basin. 




she understood me. I longed to have the wedding ovei 
that I m ght get rid of the black woman, and have time 
to take her place, and get everything prepared. The 
captain arrived, and his man with him. And twice I 
came upon the two blacks in close conversation. — ^AVell, 
the wedding-day came. The people went to church; 
and while they were there a terrible storm of wind and 
snow came on, such that the horses would hardly face it. 
The captain was going to take his bride home to his 
father. Sir Giles’s ; but, short as the distance was, before 
the time came the storm got so dreadful that no one 
could think of leaving the house that night. The wind 
blew for all the world just as it blows this night, only it 
was snow in its mouth, and not rain. Carriage and 
horses and all would have been blown off the road for 
certain. It did blow, to be sure ! After dinner was 
over and the ladies were gone to the drawing-room, and 
the gentlemen had been sitting over their wine for some 
time, the butler, William Weir — an honest man, whose 
wife lived at the lodge — came to iiiy room looking 
scared. “ Lawks, William ! ” says I,’ said my aunt, sir, 
whatever is the matter with you?” — “Well, Mrs 
Prendergast ! ” says he, and said no more. “ Lawks, 
William,” says I, “ speak out” — “ Well,” says he, “ Mrs 
Prendergast, it ’s a strange wedding, it is ! There ’s the 
ladies all alone in the with drawing-room, and there’s the 
gentlemen calling for more wine, and cursing and swear- 
ing that it ’s awful to hear. It ’s my belief that swords 
'11 be drawn afore long.”— “ Tut ! ” says I, “ William, it 
11 come the sooner if you don’t give them what they 


ii8 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


want. Go and get it as fast as you can.” — “ I don ’t 
a’most like goin’ down them stairs alone, in sich a right, 
ma’am,” says he. “ Would you mind coming with mel” 
— “ Dear me, William,” says I, “ a pretty story to tell 
your wife” — she was my own half-sister, and younger 
than me — ‘‘a pretty story to tell your wife, that you 
wanted an old body like me to go and take care of you 
in your own cellar,” says 1. “ But I ’ll go with you, if 

you like; for, to tell the truth, it’s a terrible night.” 
\.nd so down we went, and brought up six bottles more 
of the best port. And I really didn’t wonder, when I 
was down there, and heard the dull roar of the wind 
against the rock below, that William didn’t much like to 
go alone. — ^When he went back with the wine, the cap- 
tain said, ‘‘ William, what kept you so long ? Mr Cent- 
livre says that you were afraid to go down into the 
cellar.” Now, wasn’t that odd, for it was a real fact ? 
Before William could reply. Sir Giles said, “A man 
might well be afraid to go an)rwhere alone in a night 
like this.” Whereupon the captain cried, with an oath, 
that he would go down the underground stair, and into 
every vault on the way, for the wager of a guinea. And 
there the matter, according to William, dropped, for the 
^esh wine was put on the table. But after they had 
drunk the most of it — the captain, according to William, 
drinking less than usual — it was brought up again, he 
couldn’t tell by which of them. And in five minutes 
after, they were all at my door, demanding the key ol 
the room at the top of the stair. I was just going up to 
•ee poor Emily when I heard the noise of their unsteady 


THE BISHOP’S BASIN. 


Hi 


feet coming along the passage to my door ; and I gave 
the captain the key at once, wishing with all my hearl 
he might get a good fright for his pains. He took a jug 
with him, too, to bring some water up from the well, as 
a proof he had been down. The rest of the gentlemen 
went with him into the little cellar-room; but they 
wouldn’t stop there till he came up again, they said it 
was so cold. They all came into my room, where they 
talked as gentlemen wouldn’t do if the wine hadn't got 
uppermost It was some time before the captain re- 
turned. It’s a good way down and back. When he 
came in at last, he looked as if he had got the fright I 
wished him, he had such a scared look. The candle in 
his lantern was out, and there was no water in the jug. 

There ’s your guinea, Centlivre,” says he, throwing it 
on the table. You needn’t ask me any questions, foi 
I won’t answer one of them.” — “ Captain,” says I, as he 
turned to leave the room, and the other gentlemen rose 
to follow him, ‘‘ I ’ll just hang up the key again .” — By 
all means,” says he. “ Where is it, then 1 ” says I. He 
tarted and made as if he searched his pockets all over 
for it. “ I must have dropped it,” says he ; “ but it ’s ot 
no consequence ; you can send William to look for it in 
the morning. It can’t be lost, you know.” — “ Very well, 
captain,” said I. But I didn’t like being without the 
key, because of course he hadn’t locked the door, and 
that part of the house has a bad name, and no wonder. 
It wasn’t exactly pleasant to have the door left open. 
All this time I couldn’t get to see how Emily was. As 
vften as I looked from ^y window, I saw her light in 


120 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


the old west turret out there, Samuel. You know th€ 
room where the bed is still. The rain and the wind will 
be blowing right through it to-night. That’s the bed 
you was bom upon, Samuel’ — It’s all gone now, sir, 
turret and all, like a good deal more about the old 
place ; but there ’s a story about that turret afterwards, 
only I mustn’t try to tell you two things at once. — ‘ Now 
I had told the Indian woman that if anything happened, 
if she was worse, or wanted to see me, she must put the 
candle on the right side of the window, and I should 
always be looking out, and would come directly, who- 
ever might wait For I was expecting you some time 
soon, and nobody knew anything about when you might 
come. But there the blind continued drawn down as 
before. So I thought all was going on right. And what 
with the storm keeping Sir Giles and so many more that 
would have gone home that night, there was no end of 
work, and some contrivance necessary, I can tell you, to 
get them all bedded for the night, for we were nothing 
too well provided with blankets and linen in the house. 
There was always more room than money in it. So it 
was past twelve o’clock before I had a minute .to my- 
self, and that was only after they had all gone to 
bed — the bride and bridegroom in the crimson cham- 
ber, of course. Well, at last I crept quietly into 
Emily’s room. I ought to have told you that I had 
not let her know anything about the wedding being 
that day, and had enjoined the heathen woman not 
to say a word ; for I thought she might as well die 
without hearing about it. But I believe the vile wretch 


THE bishop’s basin. 


lai 


did tell her. When I opened the room-door, there 
was no light there. I spoke, but no one answered. I 
had my own candle in my hand, but it had been blown 
out as I came up the stair. I turned and ran along the 
corridor to reach the main stair, which was the nearest 
way to my room, when all at once I heard such a shriek 
from the crimson chamber as I never heard in my life. 
It made me all creep like worms. And in a moment 
doors and doors were opened, and lights came out, 
everybody looking terrified; and what with drink, and 
horror, and sleep, some of the gentlemen were awful 
to look upon. And the door of the crimson chamber 
opened too, and the captain appeared in his dressing- 
gown, bawling out to know what was the matter ; though 
I’m certain, to this day, the cry did come from that 
room, and that he knew more about it than any one else 
did. As soon as I got a light, however, which I did 
from Sir Giles’s candle, I left them to settle it amongst 
them, and ran back to the west turret. When I entered 
the room, there was my dear girl lying white and motion- 
less. There could be no doubt a baby had been born, 
but no baby was to be seen. I rushed to the bed ; but 
though she was still warm, your poor mother was quite 
dead. There was no use in thinking about helping her , 
but what could have become of the child 1 As if by a 
light in my mind, I saw it all. I rushed down to rny 
room, got my lantern, and, without waiting to be afraid, 
ran to the underground stairs, where I actually found 
the door standing open. I had not gone down more 
th?^n three turnings, when I thought I hegurd a qy. uud 


122 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD 


I sped faster still. And just about half-way down, there 
lay a bundle in a blanket. And how ever you got over 
the state I found you in, Samuel, I can’t think. But 1 
caught you up as you was, and ran to my own room with 
you; and I locked the door, and there being a kettle 
on the fire, and some conveniences in the place, I did 
the best for you I could. For the breath wasn’t out of 
you, though it well might have been. And then I laid 
you before the fire, and by that time you had begun to 
cry a little, to my great pleasure, and then I got a blanket 
off my bed, and wrapt you up in it; and, the storm 
being abated by this time, made the best of my way 
with you through the snow to the lodge, where William’s 
wife lived. It was not so far off then as it is now. But 
in the midst of my trouble the silly body did make me 
laugh when he opened the door to me, and saw the 
bundle in my arms. “ Mrs • Prendergast,” says he, “ I 
didn’t expect it of you .” — ** Hold your tongue,” I said. 
“ You would never have talked such nonsense if you 
had had the grace to have any of your own,” says I. 
And with that I into the bedroom and shut the door, 
and left him out there in his shirt My sister and I 
soon got everything arranged, for there was no time to 
lose. And before morning I had all made tidy, and 
your poor mother lying as sweet a corpse as ever angel 
saw. And no one could say a word against her. And 
it ’s my belief that that villain made her believe somehow 
or other that she was as good as married to him. She 
was buried down there in the churchyard, close by the 
vestry-door,’ said my aunt, sir, and all of our family have 


THE bishop’s basin. 


123 


been buried there ever since, my son Tom’s wife among 
them, sir.” 

‘‘But what was that cry in the house?” I asked 
“ And what became of the black woman ?” 

“ The woman was never seen again in our quarter ; 
and what the cry was my aunt never would say. She 
seemed to know though ; notwithstanding, as she said, 
that Captain and Mrs Crowfoot denied all knowledge ol 
it. But the lady looked dreadful, she said, and never 
was well again, and died at the birth of her first child. 
That was the present Mrs Oldcastle’s father, sir.” 

“ But why should the woman have left you on the 
stair, instead of drowning you in the well at the bot- 
tom?” 

“ My aunt evidently thought there was some mystery 
about that as well as the other, for she had no doubt 
about the woman’s intention. But all she would ever 
say concerning it was, ‘ The key was never found, 
Samuel. You see I had to get a new one made.’ And 
she- pointed to where it hung on the wall. ‘But that 
doesn’t look new now,’ she would say. ‘ The lock was 
very hard to fit again.’ And so you see, sir, I was 
brought up as her nephew, though people were sur- 
prised, no doubt, that William Weir’s wife should have 
a child, and nobody know she was expecting. — Well, 
with all the reports of the captain’s money, none of it 
showed in this old place, which from that day began, as 
it \\ere, to crumble away. There’s been little repair 
done upon it since then. If it hadn’t been a well-built 
place to begin with, it wouldn’t be standing now, sir 


124 


ANNAIS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


But it ’s a very different place, I can tell you. Why, all 
behind was a garden with terraces, and fruit trees, and 
gay flowers, to no end. I remember it as well as yes 
terday ; nay, a great deal better, for the matter of that 
For-I dofft remember yesterday at all, sir.” 

I have tried a little to tell the story as he told it. Bui 
I am aware that I have succeeded very badly ; for I am 
not like my friend in London, who, I verily believe, 
could give you an exact representation of any dialect he 
ever heard. I wish I had been able to give a little 
more of the form of the old man’s speech; all I have 
been able to do is to show a difference from my own 
way of telling a story. But in the main, I think, I have 
reported it correctly. I believe if the old man was cor- 
rect in representing his aunt’s account, the story is very 
little altered between us. 

But why should I tell such a story at all ? 

I am willing to allow, at once, that I have very likely 
given it more room than it deserves in these poor Annals 
of mine; but the reason why I tell it at all is simply this, 
that, as it came from the old man’s lips, it interested me 
greatly. It certainly did not produce the effect I had 
hoped to gain from an interview with him, namely, a 
reduction to the common and present. For all this ancient 
tale tended to keep up the sense of distance between 
my day’s experience at the Hall and the work I had to 
do amongst my cottagers and trades-people. Indeed, it 
came very strangely upon that experience. 

‘‘ But surely you did not believe such an extravagant 
lak 1 The old man was in his dotage, to begin with/’ 


THE bishop’s basin. 


125 


Had the old man been in his dotage, which he was 
not, my answer would have been a more triumphant 
one. For when was dotage consistently and imagine 
tively inventive? But why should I not believe the 
story ? There are people who can never believe any- 
thing that is not (I do not say merely in accordance with 
their own character, but) in accordance with the parti 
cular mood they may happen to be in at the time it is 
presented to them. They know nothing of human nature 
beyond their own immediate preference at the moment 
for port or sherry, for vice or virtue. To tell me there 
oould not be a man so lost to shame, if to rectitude, as 
Captain Crowfoot, is simply to talk nonsense. Nay, 
gentle reader, if you — and let me suppose I address a 
lady — if you will give yourself up for thirty years to doing 
just whatever your lowest self and not your best self may 
like, I will warrant you capable, by the end of that time, 
of child murder at least I do not think the descent to 
Avemus is always easy; but it is always possible. Many 
and many such a story was fact in old times; and human 
nature being the same still, though under different re- 
straints, equally horrible things are constantly in progress 
towards the windows of the newspapers. 

** But the whole tale has such a melodramatic air I” 

That argument simply amounts to this : that, because 
such subjects are capable of being employed with greai 
dramatic effect, and of being at the same time very 
badly represented, therefore they cannot take place in 
real life. But ask any physician of your acquaintance, 
whether a story is unlikely simply because it involvei 


126 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


terrible things such as do not occur every Jay. The 
fact is, that such things, occurring monthly or yearly 
only, are more easily hidden away out of sight. Indeed 
we can have no sense of security for ourselves except in 
the knowledge that we are striving up and away, and 
therefore cannot be sinking nearer to the region of such 
awful possibilities. 

Yet, as I said before, I am afraid I have given it too 
large a space in my narrative. Only it so forcibly re- 
minded me at the time of the expression I could not 
understand upon Miss Oldcastle’s face, and since then 
has been so often recalled by circumstances and events, 
that I felt impelled to record it in full. And now I 
have done with it. 

I left the old man with thanks for the kind reception 
he had given me, and walked home, revolving many 
things with which I shall not detain the attention of my 
reader. Indeed my thoughts were confused and troubled, 
and would ill bear analysis or record. I shut myseli 
up in my study, and tried to read a sermon of Jeremy 
Taylor. But it would not do. I fell fast asleep ove** 
at last and woke refreshed. 


CHAPTER VIII 


WHAT 1 PREACHED, 

URING the suffering which accompanied the 
disappointment at which I have already 
hinted, I did not think it inconsistent with 
the manly spirit in which I was resolved 
to endure it, to seek consolation from such a source 
as the New Testament — if mayhap consolation for such 
a trouble was to be found there. Whereupon, a little 
to my surprise, I discovered that I could not read the 
Epistles at all. For I did not then care an atom for the 
theological discussions in which I had been interested 
before, and for the sake of which I had read those 
epistles. Now that I was in trouble, what to me was 
that philosophical theology staring me in the face from 
out the sacred page! Ah! reader, do not misunder- 
stand me. All reading of the Book is not reading of 
the Word. And many that are first shall be last and 
the last first I know now that it was Jesur Christ smd 



128 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


not theology that filled the hearts of the men that wrote 
those epistles — ^Jesus Christ, the living, loving God-Man, 
whom I found — not in the Epistles, but in the Gospels. 
The Gospels contain what the apostles preached — the 
Epistles what they wrote after the preaching. And 
until we understand the Gospel, the good news of Jesus 
Christ our brother-king — until we understand Him, 
until we have His Spirit, promised so freely to them 
that ask it — all the Epistles, the words of men who 
were full of Him, and wrote out of that fulness, who 
loved Him so utterly that by that very love they were 
lifted into the air of pure reason and right, and would 
die for Him, and did die for Him, without two thoughts 
about it, in the very simplicity of no choice — the Letters, 
I say, of such men are to us a sealed book. Until we 
love the Lord so as to do what He tells us, we have no 
right to have an opinion about what one of those men 
nxeant; for all they wrote is about things beyond us. 
The simplest woman who tries not to judge her neigh- 
bour, or not to be anxious for the morrow, will better 
know what is best to know, than the best-read bishop 
without that one simple outgoing of his highest nature 
in the effort to do the will of Him who thus spoke. 

But I have, as is too common with me, been led 
away by my feelings from the path to the object before 
me. What I wanted to say was this ; that, although I 
could make nothing of the epistles, could see no possi- 
bility of consolation for my distress springing from them, 
I found it altogether different when I tried the Gospel 
once more. Indeed, it then took such a hold of me as 


WHAT I PREACHED. 


129 


it had never taken before. Only that is simply saying 
nothing. I found out that I had known nothing at all 
about it ; that I had only a certain surface-knowledge, 
which tended rather to ignorance, because it fostered 
the delusion that I did know. Know that man, Christ 
Jesus ! Ah ! Lord, I would go through fire and watei 
to sit the last at Thy table in Thy kingdom ; but dare I 
say now I know Thee ! — But Thou art the Gospel, for 
Thou art the Way, the Truth, and the Life ; and I have 
found Thee the Gospel. For I found, as I read, that 
Thy very presence in my thoughts, not as the theolo 
gians show Thee, but as Thou showedst Thyself to them 
who report Thee to us, smoothed the troubled waters of 
my spirit, so that, even while the storm lasted, I was 
able to walk upon them to go to Thee. And when 
those waters became clear, I most rejoiced in theif 
clearness because they mirrored Thy form — because 
Thou wert there to my vision — the one Ideal, the 
perfect man, the God perfected as king of men by 
working out His Godhood in the work of man ; reveal- 
ing that God and man are one ; that to serve God, a 
man must be partaker of the Divine nature ; that for a 
man’s work to be done thoroughly, God must come and 
do it first Himself j that to help men, He must be what 
He is — man in God, God in man — visniiy before theii 
eyes, or to the hearing of their ears So much I saw. 

And therefore, when I was once more in a position 
to help my fellows, what could I want to give them but 
that which was the very bread and water of life to me— 
the Saviour himself 1 And how was I to do this? — By 

I 


130 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


trying to represent the man in all the simplicity of His 
life, of His sayings and doings, of His refusals to say or 
do. — I took the story from the beginning, and told them 
about the Baby; trying to make the fathers and mothers, 
and all whose love for children supplied the lack of 
fatherhood and motherhood, feel that it was a real baby- 
boy. And I followed the life on and on, trying to show 
them how He felt, as far as one might dare to touch 
such sacred things, when He did so and so, or said so 
and so; and what His relation to His father and mother 
and brothers and sisters was, and to the different kinds 
of people who came about Him. And I tried to show 
them what His sayings meant, as far as I understood 
them myself, and where I could not understand them 
I just told them so, and said I hoped for more light by 
and by to enable me to understand them ; telling them 
that that hope was a sharp goad to my resolution, driv- 
ing me on to do my duty, because I knew that only as 
I did my duty would light go up in my heart, making 
me wise to understand the precious words of my Lord. 
And I told them that if they would try to do their duty, 
they would find more understanding from that than from 
any explanation I could give them. 

And so I went on from Sunday to Sunday. And the 
number of people that slept grew less and less, until, at 
lask it was reduced to the churchwarden, Mr Brownrigg, 
and an old washerwoman, who, poor thing, stood so 
much all the week, that sitting down with her was like 
going to bed, and she never could do it, as she told me, 
without going to sleep. I, therefore, called upon hei 


WHAT I PREACHED^ 


* 3 > 


every Monday morning, and had five minutes* chat with 
her as she stood at her wash-tub, wishing to make up to 
her for her drowsiness; and thinking that if I could 
once get her interested in anything, she might be able 
to keep awake a little while at the beginning of the 
sermon ; for she gave me no chance of interesting her 
on Sundays — going fast asleep the moment I stood up 
to preach. I never got so far as that, however ; and the 
only fact that showed me I had made any impression 
upon her, beyond the pleasure she always manifested 
when I appeared on the Monday, was, that, whereas all 
my linen had been very badly washed at first, a decided 
improvement took place after a while, beginning with 
my surplice and bands, and gradually extending itseli 
to my shirts and handkerchiefs; till at last even Mrs 
Pearson was unable to find any fault with the poor old 
sleepy woman’s work. For Mr Brownrigg, I am not 
sure that the sense of any one sentence I ever uttered, 
down to the day of his death, entered into his brain — I 
dare not say his mind or heart. With regard to him, 
and millions besides, I am more than happy to obey my 
Lord’s command, and not judge. 

But it was not long either before my congregations 
began to improve, whatever might be the cause. I could 
not help hoping that it was really because they liked to 
hear the Gospel, that is, the good news about Christ 
himself. And I always made use of the knowledge I 
had of my individual hearers, to say what I thought 
would do them good. Not that I ever preached at any- 
body; I only sought to explain the principles of things 


132 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


in which I knew action of some sort was demanded 
from them. For I remembered how our Lord’s sermon 
against covetousness, with the parable of the rich man 
with the little barn, had for its occasion the request of a 
man that our Lord would interfere to make his brother 
share with him; which He declining to do, yet gave 
both brothers a lesson such as, if they wished to do 
what was right, would help them to see clearly what was 
the right thing to do in this and every such matter. 
Clear the mind’s eye, by washing away the covetous- 
ness, and the whole nature would be full of light, and 
the right walk would speedily follow. 

Before long, likewise, I was as sure of seeing the pale 
face of Thomas Weir perched, like that of a man be- 
headed for treason, upon the apex of the gablet of the 
old tomb, as I was of hearing the wonderful playing ol 
that husky old organ, of which I have spoken once be- 
fore. I continued to pay him a visit every now and 
then; and I assure you, never was the attempt to be 
thoroughly honest towards a man better understood or 
more appreciated than my attempt was by the atheistical 
carpenter. The man was no more an atheist than 
David was when he saw the wicked spreading like a 
green bay-tree, and was troubled at the sight. He only 
wanted to see a God in whom he could trust. And if I 
succeeded at all in making him hope that there might be 
such a God, it is to me one of the most precious seals 
of my ministry. 

But it was now getting very near Christmas, and there 
was one person whom I had never yet seen at church ; 


WHAT I PREACHtD. 


133 


that was Catherine Weir. I thought, at first, it could 
hardly be that she shrunk from being seen ; for how 
then could she have taken to keeping a shop, where she 
must be at the beck of every one ? I had several times 
gone and bought tobacco of her since that first occa- 
sion ; and I had told my housekeeper to buy whatever 
she could from her, instead of going to the larger shop 
in the place ; at which Mrs Pearson had grumbled a 
good deal, saying how could th^ things be so good out 
of a poky shop like that ? But I told her I did not care 
if the things were not quite as good ; for it would be of 
more consequence to Catherine to have the custom, than 
it would be to me to have the one lump of sugar I put 
in my tea of a morning one shade or even two shades 
whiter. So I had contrived to keep up a kind of con- 
nexion with her, although I saw that any attempt at 
conversation was so distasteful to her, that it must do 
harm until something should have brought about a 
change in her feelings; though what feeling wanted 
changing, I could not at first tell. I came to the con- 
clusion that she had been wronged grievously, and that 
this wrong operating on a nature similar to her father’s, 
had drawn all her mind to brood over it The world 
itself, the whole order of her life, everything about her, 
would seem then to have wronged her ; and to speak to 
her of religion would only rouse ner scorn, and make 
her feei as if God himself, if there were a God, had 
wronged her too. Evidently, likewise, she had that 
peculiarity of strong, undeveloped natures, of being un- 
able, once possessed by one set of thoughts, to get rV 


134 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


of it again, or to see anything except in the shadow of 
those thoughts. I had no doubt, however, at last, that 
she was ashamed of her position in the eyes of society, 
although a hitherto indomitable pride had upheld her to 
face it so far as was necessary to secure her independ- 
ence ; both of which — pride and shame — prevented her 
from appearing where it was unnecessary, and especially 
in church. I could do nothing more than wait for a 
favourable opportunity. I could invent no way of reach- 
ing her yet ; for I had soon found that kindness to her 
boy was regarded rather in the light of an insult to her. 
I should have been greatly puzzled to account for his 
being such a sweet little fellow, had I not known that 
he was a great deal with his aunt and grandfather. A 
more attentive and devout worshipper was not in the 
congregation than that little boy. 

Before going on to speak of another of the most re 
markable of my parishioners, whom I have just once 
mentioned I believe already, I should like to say that 
on three several occasions before Christmas I had seen 
Judy look grave. She was always quite well-behaved in 
church, though restless, as one might expect. But on 
these occasions she was not only attentive, but grave, as 
if she felt something or other. I will not mention what 
subjects I was upon at those times, because the mention 
of them would not, in the minds of my readers, at all 
harmonise with the only notion of Judy they can yet by 
possibility have. 

For Mrs Oldcastle, I never saw her change countenance 
or even expression at anything — I mean in church. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE ORGANIST. 

N the afternoon of my second Suncray at 
Marshmallows, I was standing in the church- 
yard, casting a long shadow in the light oi 
the declining sun. I was reading the in- 
scription upon an old headstone, for I thought every- 
body was gone ; when I heard a door open, and shut 
again before I could turn. I saw at once that it must 
have been a little door in the tower, almost concealed 
from where I stood by a deep buttress. I had never 
seen the door open, and I had never inquired anything 
about it, supposing it led merely into the tower. 

After a moment it opened again, and, to my surprise, 
out came, stooping his tall form to get his gray head 
clear of the low archway, a man whom no one could 
pass without looking after him. Tall, and strongly built, 
he had the carriage of a military man, without an atom 
of that sternness which one generally finds in the facet 



136 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


of those accustomed to command. He had a large face, 
with large regular features, and large clear gray eyes, all 
of which united to express an exceeding placidity or re- 
pose. It shone with intelligence — a mild intelligence — 
no way suggestive of profundity, although of geniality. 
Indeed, there was a little too much expression. The 
face seemed to express all that lay beneath it. 

I was not satisfied with the countenance ; and yet it 
looked quite good. It was somehow a too well-ordered 
face. It was quite Greek in its outline ; and marvellously 
well kept and smooth, considering that the beard, to 
which razors were utterly strange, and which descended 
half-way down his breast, would have been as white a.s 
snow except for a slight yellowish tinge. His eyebrows 
were still very dark, only just touched with the frost ol 
winter. His hair, too, as I saw when he lifted his hat, 
was still wonderfully dark for the condition of his beard. 
— It flashed into my mind, that this must be the organist 
who played so remarkably. Somehow I had not hap 
pened yet to inquire about him. But there was a state- 
liness in this man amounting almost to consciousness 
of dignity ; and I was a little bewildered. His clothes 
were all of black, very neat and clean, but old-fashioned 
and threadbare. They bore signs of use, but more signs 
of time and careful keeping. I would have spoken to 
him, but something in the manner in which he bowed 
to me as he passed, prevented me, and I let him go un 
accosted. 

The sexton coming out directly after, and proceeding 
to lock the door, I was struck by the action. “ What is 


THE ORGANIST. 


W 


he locking the door forT' I said to myself. But I said 
nothing to him, because I had not answered the question 
myself yet. 

Who is that gentleman,” I asked, “who came out 
just now 1 ” 

“ That is Mr Stoddart, sir,” he answered. 

I thought I had heard the name in the neighbourhood 
before. 

“ Is it he who plays the organ 1 ” I asked. 

“ That he do, sir. He ’s played our organ for the last 
ten year, ever since he come to live at the Hall.” 

“What HalH” 

“Why the Hall, to be sure, — Oldcastle Hall, you 
know.” 

And then it dawned on my recollection that I had 
heard Judy mention her uncle Stoddart But how could 
he be her uncle 1 

“ Is he a relation of the family?” I asked. 

“ He *s a brother-in-law, I believe, of the old lady, sir, 
but how ever he come to live there I don’t know. It ’s 
no such binding connexion, you know, sir. He *s been 
in the milintairy line, I believe, sir, in the Ingies, or 
somewheres.” 

I do not think I shall have any more strange parish- 
ioners to present to my readers ; at least I do not re- 
member any more just at this moment And this one, 
as the reader will see, I positively could not keep 
out 

A military man from India ! a brother-in-law of Mrs 
Oldcastle, choosing to live with her I an entrancing per 


138 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


former upon an old, asthmatic, diy-throated church 
organ ! taking no trouble to make the clergyman’s ac- 
quaintance, and passing him in the churchyard with a 
courteous bow, although his face was full of kindliness, 
if not of kindness ! I could not help thinking all this 
strange. And yet — will the reader cease to accord me 
credit when I assert it 1 — although I had quite intended 
to inquire after him when I left the vicarage to go to 
the Hall, and had even thought of him when sitting with 
Mrs Oldcastle, I never thought of him again after going 
with Judy, and left the house without having made a 
single inquiry after him. Nor did I think of him again 
till just as I was passing under the outstretched neck of 
one of those serpivolants on the gate ; and what made 
me think of him then, I cannot in the least imagine ; but 
I resolved at once that I would call upon him the fol- 
lowing week, lest he should think that the fact of his 
having omitted to call upon me had been the occasion 
of such an apparently pointed omission on my part. 
For I had long ago determined to be no further guided 
by the rules of society than as they might aid in bring- 
ing about true neighbourliness, and if possible friendli- 
ness and friendship. Wherever they might interfere 
with these, I would disregard them — as far on the other 
hand as the disregard of them might tend to bring about 
the results I desired. 

AVhen, carrying out this resolution, I rang the door- 
bell at the Hall, and inquired whether Mr Stoddart was 
at home, the butler stared ; and, as I simply continued 
gazing in return, and waiting, he answered at length, 


THE ORGANIST. 


139 


with some hesitation, as if he were picking and choosing 
his words : 

“ Mr Stoddart never calls upon any one, sir.'* 

I am not complaining of Mr Stoddart,” I answered, 
wishing to put the man at his ease. 

“ But nobody calls upon Mr Stoddart,” he returned. 
That ’s very unkind of somebody, surely,” I said. 

** But he doesn't want anybody to call upon him, sir.” 

“Ah! that’s another matter. I didn’t know that 
Of course, nobody has a right to intrude upon anybody. 
However, as I happen to have come without knowing 
his dislike to being visited, perhaps you will take him 
my card, and say that if it is not disagreeable to him, I 
should like exceedingly to thank him in person for his 
sermon on the organ last Sunday.” 

He had played an exquisite voluntary in the morning. 

“ Give my message exactly, if you please,” 1 said, as I 
followed the man into the hall. 

“ I will try, sir,” he answered. “ But won’t you come 
up-stairs to mistress’s room, sir, while I take this to Mr 
Stoddart?” 

“No, I thank you,” I answered. “I came to call 
upon Mr Stoddart only, and I will wait the result oi 
you mission here in the hall.” 

The man withdrew, and I sat down on a bench, and 
amused myself with looking at the portraits about me. 
I learned afterwards that they had hung, till some thirty 
years before, in a long gallery connecting the main part 
of the house with that portion to which the turret refened 
to so often in Old Weir’s stoiy was attached. One par 


140 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


ticularly pleased me. It was the portrait of a young 
woman — very lovely — but with an expression both sad 
and — scared, I think, would be the readiest word to 
communicate what I mean. It was indubitably, indeed 
remarkably, like Miss Oldcastle. And I learned after- 
wards that it was the portrait of Mrs Oldcastle’s grand- 
mother, that very Mrs Crowfoot mentioned in Weir’s 
story. It had been taken about six months after her 
marriage, and about as many before her death. 

The butler returned, with the request that I would 
follow him. He led me up the grand staircase, through 
a passage at right angles to that which led to the old 
lady’s room, up a narrow circular staircase at the end of 
the passage, across a landing, then up a straight steep 
narrow stair, upon which two people could not pass 
without turning sideways and then squeezing. At the 
top of this I found myself in a small cylindrical lobby, 
papered in blocks of stone. There was no door to be 
seen. It was lighted by a conical skylight. My con- 
ductor gave a push against the wall. Certain Mocks 
yielded, and others came forward. In fact a door re- 
volved on central pivots, and we were admitted to a 
chamber crowded with books from floor to ceiling, 
arranged with wonderful neatness and solidity. From 
the centre of the ceiling, whence hung a globular lamp, 
radiated what I took to be a number of strong beams 
supporting a floor above; for our ancestors put the ceil- 
ing above the beams, instead of below them, as we do, 
and gained in space if they lost in quietness. But I 
soon found out my mistake. Those radiating beams 


THE ORGANIST. 


14* 


were in reality book-shelves. For on each side of those 
I passed under I could see the gilded backs of books 
standing closely ranged together. I had never seen the 
contrivance before, nor, I presume, was it to be seen 
anywhere else. 

“ How does Mr Stoddart reach those books?” I asked 
my conductor. 

“ I don’t exactly know, sir,” whispered the butler. 
“ His own man could tell you, I dare say. But he has 
a holiday to-day; and I do not think he would explain 
it either; for he says his master allows no interference 
with his contrivances. I believe, however, he does not 
use a ladder.” 

There was no one in the room, and I saw no entrance 
but that by which we had entered. The next moment, 
however, a nest of shelves revolved in front of me, and 
there Mr Stoddart stood with outstretched hand. 

“ You have found me at last, Mr Walton, and I am 
glad to see you,” he said. 

He led me into an inner room, much larger than the 
one I had passed through. 

“ I am glad,” I replied, that I did not know, till the 
butler told me, your unwillingness to be intruded upon ; 
for I fear, bad I known it, I should have been yet longer 
a stranger to you.” 

‘^You are no stranger to me. I have heard you read 
prayers, and I have heard you preach.” 

“ And I have heard you play; so you are no strangei 
to me either.” 

‘‘ Well before we say another word,” said Mr Stoddart^ 


142 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I must just say one word about this report of my un 
sociable disposition. — I encourage it; but am very glad 
to see you, notwithstanding. — Do sit down.” 

I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word. 

I was so bored with visits after I :ame, visits which 
were to me utterly uninteresting, that I was only too 
glad when the unusual nature of some of my pursuits 
gave rise to the rumour that I was mad. The more 
people say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so long 
as they are satisfied with my own mode of shutting my- 
self up, and do not attempt to carry out any fancies of 
their own in regard to my personal freedom.” 

Upon this followed some desultory conversation, dur- 
ing which I took some observations of the room. Like 
the outer room, it was full of books from floor to ceiling. 
But the ceiling was divided into compartments, harmoni 
ously coloured. 

‘‘ What a number of books you have !” I observed. 

“Not a great many,” he answered. “ But I think 
there is hardly one of them with which I have not some 
kind of personal acquaintance. I think I could almost 
find you any one you wanted in the dark, or in the 
twilight at least, which would allow me to distinguish 
whether the top edge was gilt, red, marbled, or uncut. 
T have bound a couple of hundred or so of them myself. 
I don’t think you could tell the work from a tradesman’s. 
I ’ll give you a guinea for the poor-box if you pick out 
three of my binding consecutively.” 

I accepted the challenge; for although I could not 
bind a book, I considered myself to have a keen eye foi 


THE OEOANIST. 


>43 


the outside finish. After looking over the backs of a 
great many, I took one down, examined a little further, 
And presented it. 

“ You are right. Now try again.” 

Again I was successful, although I doubted. 

And now for the last,” he said. 

Once more I was right. 

“ There is your guinea,” said he, a little mortified. 

“No,” I answered. “ I do not feel at liberty to take 
it, because, to tell the truth, the last was a mere guess, 
nothing more.” 

Mr Stoddart looked relieved. 

“ You are more honest than most of your profession," 
he said. “ But I am far more pleased to offer you the 
guinea upon the smallest doubt of your having won it” 

“ I have no claim upon it” 

“ What ! Couldn’t you swallow a small scruple like 
that for the sake of the poor even? Well, I don’t be- 
lieve you could. — Oblige me by taking this guinea for 
some one or other of your poor people. But I am glad 
you weren’t sure of that last book. I am indeed.” 

I took the guinea, and put it in my purse. 

“ But,” he resumed, “ you won’t do, Mr Walton. 
You’re not fit for your profession. You won’t tell a lie 
for God’s sake. You won’t dodge about a little to keep 
all right between Jove and his weary parishioners. You 
cheat a little for the sake of the poor! You 
A ouldn’t even bamboozle a little at a bazaar !” 

“ I should not like to boast of my principles,” I an- 
Kwe-ed ; “ for the moment one does so, they become ai 


144 ANNALS OF A QUIBT NEIGHBOURHOODi. 


the apples of Sodom. But assuredly I would not faroai 
a fiction to keep a world out of hell. The hell that a 
lie would keep any man out ef is doubtless the very best 
place for him to go to. It is truth, yes, The Truth that 
saves the world.” 

“You are right, I daresay. You are more sure about 
it than I am though.” 

“ Let us agree where we can,” I said, “ first of all ; 
and that will make us able to disagree, where we must, 
without quarrelling.” 

“ Good,” he said — “ Would you like to see my work 
shop ? ” 

“ Very much, indeed,” I answered, heartily. 

“ Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics 1 ” 

“I used to do so as a boy. But of course I have 
little time now for anything of the sort.” 

“ Ah ! of course.” 

He pushed a compartment of books. It pelded, and 
'^sre entered a small closet In another moment I found 
myself leaving the floor, and in yet a moment we were 
on the floor of an upper room. 

“ What a nice way of getting up-stairs ! ” I said. 

“ There is no other way of getting to this room,” an- 
swered Mr Stoddart “ I built it myself ; and there was 
no room for stairs. This is my shop. In my library J 
only read my favourite books. Here I read anything I 
want to read ; write anything I want to write ; bind my 
books; invent machines; and amuse myself generally 
Take a chair.” 

I obeyed, and began to look about me* 


THK OKGANIST. 


145 


The room had many books in detached book-cases. 
There were various benches against the walls between, 
— one a bookbinder’s; another a carpenter’s; a third 
had a turning-lathe ; a fourth had an iron vice fixed on 
it, and was evidently used for working in metal. Be- 
sides these, for'" it was a large room, there were several 
tables with chemical apparatus upon them, Florence- 
flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and such like; while in a 
corner stood a furnace. 

** What an accumulation ot ways and means you have 
about you I” I said; “and all, apparently, to different 
ends.’* 

“All to the same end, if my object were understood.” 

“ I presume I must ask no questions as to that object 1” 

“ It would take time to explain. I have theories of 
education. I think a man has to educate himself into 
harmony. Therefore he must open every possible win- 
dow by which the influences of the All may come in 
upon him. I do not think any man complete without 
a perfect development of his mechanical faculties, for 
instance, and I encourage them to develop themselves 
into such windows.” 

“ I do not object to your theory, provided you do not 
put it forward as a perfect scheme of human life. If 
you did, I should have some questions to ask you about 
it, lest I should misunderstand you.” 

He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied smile. 
There was nothing offensive in it, but it left me with- 
out anything to reply to. No embarrassment followed, 

however, for a rustling motion in the room the same 

K 


146 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


instant attracted my attention, and I saw, to my sur- 
prise, and I must confess, a little to my confusion, Miss 
Oldcastle. She was seated in a corner, reading from a 
quarto lying upon her knees. 

“ Oh ! you didn’t know my niece was here 1 To tell 
the truth, I forgot her when I brought you up, else I 
would have introduced you.” 

That is not necessary, uncle,” said Miss Oldcastle, 
closing her book. 

I was by her instantly. She slipped the quarto from 
her knee, and took my offered hand. 

“Are you fond of old books?” I said, not having any^ 
thing better to say. 

“ Some old books,” she answered. 

“ May I ask what book you were reading?” 

“ I will answer you— under protest,” she said, with a 
smile. 

“ I withdraw the question at once,” I returned. 

“ I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of 
Jacob Behmen.” 

“ Do you understand him 1 ” 

“Yes. Don’t you?” 

“ Well, I have made but little attempt,” I answered. 
“ Indeed, it was only as I passed through London last 
that I bought his works ; and I am sorry to find that 
one of the plates is missing from my copy.” 

“ Which plate is it ? It is not very easy, I understand, 
to procure a perfect coi)y. One of my uncle’s copied 
has no two volumes bound alike. Each must have be> 
longed to a different set” 


THE ORGANIST. 


*47 


‘‘I can’t tell you what the plate is. But there are 
only three of those very curious unfolding ones in my 
third volume, and there should be four.” 

do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you are 
wrong.” 

** I am glad to hear it — though to be glad that the 
world does not possess what I thought I only was de- 
prived of, is selfishness, cover it over as one may with 
the fiction of a perfect copy.” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” she returned, without any response 
to what I said. “ I skould always like things perfect 
myself.” 

“Doubtless,” I answered; and thought it better to 
try another direction. 

“ How is Mrs Oldcastle ? ” I asked, feeling in its turn 
the reproach of hypocrisy; for though I could have 
suffered, I hope, in my person and goods and reputa- 
tion, to make that woman other than she was, I could 
not say that I cared one atom whether she was in 
health or not Possibly I should have preferred the 
latter member of the alternative; for the suffering of 
the lower nature is as a fire that drives the higher 
nature upwards. So I felt rather hypocritical when I 
asked Miss Oldcastle after her. 

“ Quite well, thank you,” she answered, in a tone of 
indifierence, which implied either that she saw through 
me, or shared in my indifference. I could not tell 
which. 

“And how is Miss Judy?” I inquired* 

“ A little savage, as usual.” 


148 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Not the worse for her wetting, I hope.” 

“ Oh ! dear no. There never was health to equal that 
child’s. It belongs to her savage nature.” 

“ 1 wish some of us were more of savages, then,” 1 
returned ; for I saw signs of exhaustion in her eyes which 
moved my sympathy. 

“ You don’t mean me, Mr Walton, I hope. For if you 
do, I assure you your interest is quite thrown away. 
Uncle will tell you I am as strong as an elephant” 

But here came a slight elevation of her person ; and a 
shadow at the same moment passed over her face. I 
saw that she felt she ought not to have allowed herself 
to become the subject of conversation. 

Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his benches 
filing away at a piece of brass fixed in the vice. He 
had thick gloves on. And, indeed, it had puzzled me 
before to think how he could have so many kinds of 
work, and yet keep his hands so smooth and white as 
they were. I could not help thinking the results could 
hardly be of the most useful description if they were 
all accomplished without some loss of whiteness and 
smoothness in the process. Even the feet that keep 
the garments clean must be washed themselves in the 
end. 

When I glanced away from Miss Oldcastle in the 
embarrassment produced by the repulsion of her last 
manner, I saw Judy in the room. At the same moment 
Miss Oldcastle rose. 

“ What is the matter, Judy?” she said. 

“ Grannie wants you,” said Judy. 


THE ORGANIST. 


*49 


Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy turned to me. 

“ How do you do, Mr Walton?’^ she said. 

Quite well, thank you, Judy,” I answered. “ Your 
uncle admits you to his workshop, then?” 

“ Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, sometimes, 
without me. Wouldn’t you. Uncle Stoddart?” 

‘‘Just as the horses in the field would feel dull with- 
out the gad-fly, Judy,” said Mr Stoddart, laughing. 

Judy, however, did not choose to receive the laugh as 
a scholium explanatory of the remark, and was gone in 
a moment, leaving Mr Stoddart and myself alone. I 
must say he looked a little troubled at the precipitate 
retreat of the damsel ; but he recovered himself with a 
smile, and said to me, 

“ I wonder what speech I shall make next to drive 
you away, Mr Walton.” 

“ I am not so easily got rid of, Mr Stoddart,” I 
answered. “ And as for taking offence, I don’t like it, 
and therefore I never take it. But tell me what you are 
doing now.” 

“ I have been working for some time at an attempt 
after a perpetual motion, but, I must confess, more from 
a metaphysical or logical point of view than a mechanical 
one.” 

Here he took a drawing from a shelf, explanatory of 
his plan. 

“ You see,” he said, “ here is a top made of platinum, 
the heaviest of metals, except iridium — which it would 
be impossible to procure enough of, and which would be 
difficult to work into the proper shape. It is surrounded, 


150 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


you will observe, by an air-tight receiver, communicat* 
ing by this tube with a powerful air-pump. The plate 
upon which the point of the top rests and revolves is a 
diamond ; and I ought to have mentioned that the peg 
of the top is a diamond likewise. This is, of course, 
for the sake of reducing the friction. By this apparatus 
communicating with the top, through the receiver, I set 
the top in motion — after exhausting the air as far as 
possible. Still there is the difficulty of the friction of 
the diamond point upon the diamond plate, which mus^ 
ultimately occasion repose. To obviate this, I have 
constructed here, underneath, a small steam-engine 
which shall cause the diamond plate to revolve at pre- 
cisely the same rate of speed as the top itself. This, of 
course, will prevent all friction.” 

“Not that with the unavoidable remnant of air, how- 
ever,” I ventured to suggest 

“ That is just my weak point,” he answered. “ But 
that will be so very small !” 

“Yes; but enough to deprive the top of perpetual 
motion.” 

“ But suppose I could get over that difficulty, would 
tlie contrivance have a right to the name of a perpetual 
motion ? For you observe that the steam-engine below 
would not be the cause of the motion. That comes 
from above, here, and is withdrawn, finally withdrawn.” 

“ I understand perfectly,” I answered. “ At least, I 
think I do. But I return the question to you : Is a 
motion which, although not caused, is enabled by an- 
other motion, worthy of the name of a perpetual motion ; 


THE ORGANIST. 


15* 


seeing the perpetuity of motion has not to do meiely 
with time, but with the indwelling of self-generative 
power — ^renewing itself constantly with the process 0 / 
exhaustion 1” 

He threw down his file on the bench. 

“ I fear you are right,” he said. “ But you will allow 
it would have made a very pretty machine.” 

“ Pretty, I will allow,” I answered, “ as distinguished 
from beautiful. For I can never dissociate beauty from 
use.” 

“ You say that ! with all the poetic things you say in 
your sermons ! For I am a sharp listener, and none the 
less such that you do not see me. I have a loophole 
for seeing you. And I flatter myself, therefore, I am 
the only person in the congregation on a level with you 
in respect of balancing advantages. I cannot contradict 
you, and you cannot address me.” 

“ Do you mean, then, that whatever is poetical is use- 
less?” I asked. 

" Do you assert that whatever is useful is beautiful?” 
he retorted. 

" A full reply to your question would need a ream ot 
paper and a quarter of quills,” I answered ; “ but I think 
I may venture so far as to say that whatever subserves a 
noble end must in itself be beautiful.” 

“Then a gallows must be beautiful because it sub- 
serves the noble end of ridding the world of male- 
factors?” he returned, promptly. 

I had to think for a moment before I could reply. 

** 1 do not see anything noble in the end,” I answered 


^52 ANNALS or A QUIIT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** If the machine got rid of malefaction, it would, indeed 
have a noble end But if it only compels it to move on, 
as a constable does — from this world into another — I do 
not, I say, see anything so noble in that end. The 
gallows cannot be beautiful.” 

‘‘Ah, I see. You don’t approve of capital punish 
ments.” 

“ I do not say that. An inevitable necessity is some- 
thing very different from a noble end. To cure the d/s- 
eased mind is the noblest of ends ; to make the sinner 
forsake his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, 
the loftiest of - designs ; but to punish him for being 
wrong, however necessary it may be for others, cannot, 
if dissociated from the object of bringing good out of 
evil, be called in any sense a noble end. I think now, 
however, it would be but fair in you to give me some 
answer to my question. Do you think the poetic use- 
less?” 

I think it is very like my machine. It may exer- 
cise the faculties without subserving any immediate 
progress.” 

“ It is so difficult to get out of the region of the poetic, 
that I cannot think it other than useful : it is so wide- 
spread. The useless could hardly be so nearly univer- 
sal. But I should like to ask you another question : 
What is the immediate effect of anything poetic upon 
your mind 1 ” 

“ Pleasure,” he answered. 

“And is pleasure good or bad I” 

“ Sometimes the one, sometimes the other ** 


THE ORGANIST. 


»53 


In itself t** 

“ I should say so.** 

“ I should not.” 

“ Are you not, then, by your very profession, more or 
less an enemy of pleasure 1 ” 

** On the contrary, I believe that pleasure is good, and 
does good, and urges to good. Care is the evil thing.” 

“ Strange doctrine for a clergyman.” 

“ Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr Stoddart. That 
might not hurt you, but it would distress me. Pleasure, 
obtained by wrong, is poison and horror. But it is not 
the pleasure that hurts, it is the wrong that is in it that 
hurts ; the pleasure hurts only as it leads to more wrong, 
I almost think myself, that if you could make everybody 
happy, half the evil would vanish from the earth.” 

‘‘ But you believe in God 1 ” 

** I hope in God I do/’ 

“ How can you then think that He would not destroy 
evil at such a cheap and pleasant rate.” 

“ Because He wants to destroy all the evil, not the 
half of it ; and destroy it so that it shall not grow again ; 
which it would be sure to do very soon if it had no anti- 
dote but happiness. As soon as men got used to happi- 
ness, they would begin to sin again, and so lose it all 
But care is distrust. I wonder now if ever there was a 
man who did his duty, and took no thought. I wish I 
could get the testimony of such a man. Has anybody 
actually tried the plan 1 ” 

But here I saw that I was not taking Mr Stoddart with 
me (as the old phrase was). The reason I supposed tc 


154 ANNALS OP A QUIET NBIGHBOUEHOOD. 


be, that he had never been troubled with much care 
But there remained the question, whether he trusted in 
God or the Bank 1 

I went back to the original question. 

But I should be very sorry you should think, that to 
give pleasure was my object in saying poetic things in 
the pulpit. If I do so, it is because true things come to 
me in their natural garments of poetic forms. What you 
call the poetic is only the outer beauty that belongs to al) 
inner or spiritual beauty — ^just as a lovely face — mind, I 
say lovely^ not pretty ^ not handsome — is the outward and 
visible presence of a lovely mind. Therefore, saying I 
cannot dissociate beauty from use, I am free to say as 
many poetic things — though, mind, I don’t claim them : 
you attribute them to me — as shall be of the highest use, 
namely, to en\body and reveal the true. But a machine 
has material use for its end. The most grotesque ma- 
chine I ever saw that did something, I felt to be in its 
own kind beautiful ; as God called many fierce and 
grotesque things good when He made the world — ^good 
for their good end. But your machine does nothing 
more than raise the metaphysical doubt and question, 
whether it can with propriety be called a perpetual 
motion or nott** 

To this Mr Stoddart making no reply, I take the 
opportunity of the break in our conversation to say to 
ray readers, that I know there was no satisfactory follow- 
ing out of an argument on either side in the passage of 
words I have just given. Even the closest reasoner 
finds it next to impossible to attend to all the sugges* 


THE ORGANIST 


*55 


tions in his own mind, not one of which he is willing to 
lose, to attend at the same time to everything his anta- 
gonist says or suggests, that he may do him justice, and 
to keep an even course towards his goal — each having 
the opposite goal in view. In fact, an argument, how- 
ever simply conducted and honourable, must just resem- 
ble a game at football ; the unfortunate question being 
the ball, and the numerous and sometimes conflicting 
thoughts which arise in each mind forming the two par- 
ties whose energies are spent in a succession of kicks. 
In fact, I don’t like argument, and I don’t care for the 
victory. If I had my way, I would never argue at all 
I would spend my energy in setting forth what I believe 
— as like itself as I could represent it, and so leave it to 
work its own way, which, if it be the right way, it must 
work in the right mind, — for Wisdom is justified of her 
children ; while no one who loves the truth can be other 
than anxious, that if he has spoken the evil thing it may 
return to him void : that is a defeat he may well pray 
for. To succeed in the wrong is the most dreadful 
punishment to a man who, in the main, is honest. But 
I beg to assure my reader I could write a long treatise 
on the matter between Mr Stoddart and myself ; there- 
fore, if he is not yet interested in such questions, let him 
be thankful to me for considering such a treatise out of 
place here. I will only say in brief, that I believe with 
all my heart that the true is the beautiful, and that no- 
thing evil can be other than ugly. If it seems not so, it 
is in virtue of some good mingled with the evil, and not 
in the smallest degree in virtue of the evil 


IS6 ANNALS OF A QUIET NKIGHBOURHOOIX 


I thought it was time for me to take my leave. But 
I could not bear to run away with the last word, as it 
were : so I said, 

** You put plenty of poetry yourself into that voluntary 
you played last Sunday. I am so much obliged to you 
fork!” 

“ Oh ! that fugue. You liked it, did youl” 

“ More than I can tell you.” 

“ I am very glad.” 

“ Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he 
describes such a performance on the organ ] ” 

" No. Can you repeat them 1 ” 

“ * His volant touch, 

Instinct through all proportions, low and high, 

Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.*” 

“That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. That is 
better than my fugue by a good deal. You have can 
celled the obligation.” 

“ Do you think doing a good turn again is cancelling 
an obligation 1 I don’t think an obligation can ever be 
relumed in the sense of being got rid of. But I am 
being hypercritical.” 

“ Not at all. — Shall I tell you what I was thinking oi 
while playing that fugue 1 ” 

“ I should like much to hear.’' 

** I had been thinking, while you were preaching, ol 
the many fancies men had worshipped for the truth; 
now following this, now following that; ever believing 
they were on the point of laying hold upon her, and 
going down to the grave empty-handed as they came,” 


THC ORGANIST. 


1ST 


‘•And empty-hearted, too?*’ I asked; but he went on 
without heeding me. 

“ And I saw a vision of multitudes following, follow- 
ing where nothing was to be seen, with arms out- 
stretched in all directions, some clasping vacancy to 
their bosoms, some reaching on tiptoe over the heads 
of their neighbours, and some with hanging heads, and 
hands clasped behind their backs, retiring hopeless from 
the chase.” 

“ Strange ! ” I said ; “ for I felt so full of hope while 
you played, that I never doubted it was hope you meant 
to express.” 

“ So I do not doubt I did ; for the multitude was full 
of hope, vain hope, to lay hold upon the truth. And 
you, being full of the main expression, and in sympathy 
with it, did not heed the undertones of disappointment, 
or the sighs of those who turned their backs on the 
chase. Just so it is in life.” 

“I am no musician,” I returned, “to give you a 
musical counter to your picture. But I see a grave 
man tilling the ground in peace, and the form of Truth 
standing behind him, and folding her wings closer and 
closer over and around him as he works on at his day'? 
labour.” 

" Very pretty,” said Mr Stoddart, and said no more. 

“ Suppose,” I went on, “ that a person knows that hv 
lias not laid hold on the truth, is that sufficient ground 
for his making any further assertion than that he Im 
not found it ? ” 

‘‘No. But if he has tried hard and has not found 


158 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


anything that he can say is tme, he cannot help thinking 
that most likely there is no such thing.” 

“ Suppose,” I said, “ that nobody has found the truth, 
is that sufficient ground for saying that nobody ever will 
find it? or that there is no such thing as truth to be 
found? Are the ages so nearly done that no chance 
yet remains ? Surely if God has made us to desire the 
truth, He has got some truth to cast into the gulf of 
that desire. Shall God create hunger and no food ? 
But possibly a man may be looking the wrong way for 
it You may be using the microscope, when you ought 
to open both eyes and lift up your head. Or a man 
may be finding some truth which is feeding his soul, 
when he does not think he is finding any. You know 
the Fairy Queen, Think how long the Redcross Knight 
travelled with the Lady Truth — Una, you know — with- 
out learning to believe in her; and how much longer still 
without ever seeing her face. For my part, may God 
give me strength to follow till I die. Only I will venture 
to say this, that it is not by any agony of the intellect 
that I expect to discover her.” 

Mr Stoddart sat drumming silently with his fingers, a 
half-smile on his face, and his eyes raised at an angle of 
forty-five degrees. I felt that the enthusiasm with which 
I had spoken was thrown away upon him. But I was 
not going to be ashamed therefore. I would put some 
faith in his best nature. 

“But does not,” he said, gently lowering his eyes 
upon mine after a moment’s pause — “does not your 
choice of a profession imply that you have not to give 


THE ORGANIST. 


>59 


chase to a fleeting phantom 1 Do you not profess to 
have, and hold, and therefore teach the truth 1 ” 

“ I profess only to have caught glimpses of her white 
garments, — those, I mean, of the abstract truth of which 
you speak. But I have seen that which is eternally be- 
yond her : the ideal in the real, the living truth, not the 
truth that I can thinks but the truth that thinks itself, 
that thinks me, that God has thought, yea, that God is, 
the truth being true to itself and to God and to man — 
Christ Jesus, my Lord, who knows, and feels, and does 
the truth. I have seen Him, and I am both content 
and unsatisfied. For in Him are hid all the treasures 
of wisdom and knowledge. Thomas ^ Kempis says; 
‘ Cui seternum Verbum loquitur, ille a multis opinionibus 
expeditur.’ ” (He to whom the eternal Word speaks, is 
set free from a press of opinions.) 

I rose, and held out my hand to Mr Stoddart He 
rose likewise, and took it kindly, conducted me to the 
room below, and ringing the bell, committed me to the 
care of the butler. 

As I approached the gate, I met Jane Rogers coming 
back from the village. I stopped and spoke to her. 
Her eyes were very red. 

“Nothing amiss at home, Janel” I said. 

“ No, sir, thank you,” answered Jane, and burst out 
crying. 

“What is the matter, theni Is your—** 

“ Nothing ’s the matter with nobody, sir.** 

“ Something is the matter with you.” 


ifiO ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** Yes, sir But I 'm quite well.” 

‘‘I don’t want to pry into your aflfairs; but if you 
think I can be of any use to you, mind you come to 
me.” 

‘‘ Thank you kindly, sir,” said Jane ; and, dropping a 
courtesy, walked on with her basket 

I went to her parents* cottage. As I came near the 
mill, the young miller was standing in the door with his 
eyes fixed on the ground, while the mill went on hop- 
ping behind him. But when he caught sight of me, he 
turned, and went in, as if he had not seen me. 

Has he been behaving ill to Jane 1 ” thought I. 

As he evidently wished to avoid me, I passed the mill 
without looking in at the door, as I was in the habit of 
doing, and went on to the cottage, where I lifted the 
latch, and walked in. Both the old people were there, 
and both looked troubled, though they welcomed me 
none the less kindly. 

“ I met Jane,” I said, ‘‘ and she looked unhappy; so 
I came on to hear what was the matter.” 

“ You oughtn’t to be troubled with our small affairs,” 
said Mrs Rogers. 

“ If the parson wants to know, why, the parson must 
be told,” said Old Rogers, smiling cheerily, as if he, at 
least, would be relieved by telling me. 

“ I don’t want to know,” I said, “ if you don’t want to 
tell me. But can I be of any use?” 

“I don’t think you can, sir, — leastways, I’m afraid 
not,” said the old woman. 

** I am sorry to say, sir, that Master Brownrigg and 


THE ORGANIST. 


l6l 


his son has come to words about our Jane ; and it^s not 
agreeable to have folk’s daughter quarrelled over in that 
way,” said Old Rogers. “ What ’ll be the upshot on it, 
I don’t know, but it looks bad now. For the father he 
tells the son that if ever he hear of him saying one word 
to our Jane, out ov the mill he goes, as sure as his 
name’s Dick. Now, it’s rather a good chance, I think, 
to see what the young fellow ’s made of, sir. So I tells 
my old ’Oman here; and so I told Jane. But neither on 
’em seems to see the comfort of it somehow. But the 
New Testament do say a man shall leave father and 
mother, and cleave to his wife.” 

“ But she ain’t his wife yet,” said Mrs Rogers to her 
husband, whose drift was not yet evident. 

‘‘No more she can be, *cept he leaves his father for 
her.” 

“ And what ’ll become of them then, without the mill 1” 

“ You and me never had no mill, old ’oman,” said 
Rogers ; “ yet here we be, very nearly ripe now, — ain’t 
us, wife?” 

“Medlar-like, Old Rogers, I doubt, — rotten before 
we ’re ripe,” replied his wife, quoting a more humorous 
than refined proverb. 

“ Nay, nay, old ’oman. Don’t ’e say so. The Lord 
won’t let us rot before we ’re ripe, anyhow. That I be 
sure on.” 

“ But, anyhow, it ’s all very well to talk. Thou knows 
how to talk, Rogers. But how will it be when th« 
children comes, and no mill 1” 

“ To grind ’em in, old ’oman 1” 

t 


i 62 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


Mrs Rogers turned to me, who was listening with real 
interest, and much amusement. 

‘‘ I wish you would speak a word to Old Rogers, sir. 
He never will speak as he ’s spoken to. He ’s always 
over merry, or over serious. He either takes me up 
short with a sermon, x>r he laughs me out of countenance 
that I don’t know where to look.” 

Now I was pretty sure that Rogers s conduct was 
simple consistency, and that the difficulty arose from his 
always acting upon one or two of the plainest principles 
of truth and right ; whereas his wife, good woman — foi 
the bad, old leaven of the Pharisees could not rise much 
in her somehow — was always reminding him of certain 
precepts of behaviour to the oblivion of principles. A 
bird in the hand,” &c. — Marry in haste,” &c. — When 
want comes in at the door love flies out at the window,” 
were amongst her favourite sayings; although not one of 
them was supported by her own experience. For in- 
stance, she had married in haste herself, and never, I 
believe, had once thought of repenting of it, although 
she had had far more than the requisite leisure for doing 
so. And many was the time that want had come in at 
her door, and the first thing it always did was to clip 
the wings of Love, and make him less flighty, and more 
tender and serviceable. So I could not even pretend to 
read her husband a lecture. 

“ He ’s a curious man. Old Rogers,” I said. “ But as 
far as I can see, he ’s in the right, in the main. Isn’t he 
nowl” 

" Oh, yes, I daresay. I think he ’s always right about 


THE ORGANIST. 


163 


the rights of the thing, you know. But a body may go 
too far that way. It won’t do to starve, sir.” 

Strange confusion — or, ought I not rather to say*?— 
ordinary and commonplace confusion of ideas ! 

“ I don’t think,” I said, any one can go too far ir 
the right way.” 

That’s just what I want my old ’oman to see, and I 
can’t get it into her, sir. If a thing ’s right, it ’s right, 
and if a thing ’s wrong, why, wrong it is. The helm must 
either be to starboard or port, sir.” 

“ But why talk of starving 1” I said. “ Can’t Dick 
work] Who could think of starting that nonsense V* 

“ Why, my old ’oman here. She wants ’em to give it 
up, and wait for better times. The fact is, she don’t 
want to lose the girl.” 

But she hasn’t got her at home now.” 

‘‘ She can have her when she wants her, though— 
leastways after a bit of warning. Whereas, if she was 
married, and the consequences a follerin’ at her heels, 
like a man-o’-war with her convoy, she would find she 
was chartered for another port, she would.” 

“ Well, you see, sir, Rogers and me ’s not so young as 
we once was, and we ’re likely to be growing older every 
day. And if there’s a difficulty in the way of Jane’s 
mairiage, why, I take it as a Godsend.” 

“ How would you have liked such a Godsend, Mrs ♦ 
Rogers, when you were going to be married to your 
sailor here i What would you have done 

“ Why, whatever he liked to be sure. But then, you 
see, Dick’s not my Rogers.” 


164 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** But your daughter thinks about him much in the 
same way as you did about this dear old man here when 
he was young.” 

“ Young people may be in the wrong, I see nothing 
in Dick Brownrigg.” 

“ But young people may be right sometimes, and old 
people may be wrong sometimes.” 

** I can’t be wrong about Rogers.” 

“ No, but you may be wrong about Dick.” 

“ Don’t you trouble yourself about my old ’oman, jiir. 
She alius was awk’ard in stays, but she never missed 
them yet. When she *s said her say, round she comes 
in the wind like a bird, sir.” 

“There’s a good old man to stick up for your old 
wife! Still, I say, they may as well wait a bit It 
would be a pity to anger the old gentleman.” 

“ What does the young man say to it 1” 

“ Why, he says, like a man, he can work for her as 
well ’s the mill, and he ’s ready, if she is.” 

“I am very glad to hear such a good account of 
him. I shall look in, and have a little chat with him. 
I always liked the look of him. Good morning, Mrs 
Rogers.” 

“ I ’ll see you across the stream, sir,” said the old man, 
following me out of the house. 

“ You see, sir,” he resumed, as soon as we were out- 
side, “ I ’m always afeard of taking things out of the 
Lord’s hands. It’s the right way, surely, that when a 
man loves a woman, and has told her so, he should acl 
like a raan, and do as is right. And isn’t that the Lord’s 


THE ORGANIST. 


165 


way ] And can*t He give them what ’s good for them. 
Mayhap they won’t love each other the less in the end 
if Dick has a little bit of the hard work that many a man 
that the liOrd loved none the less has had before him. 
1 wouldn’t like to anger the old gentleman, as my wife 
says ; but if I was Dick, I know what 1 would do. But 
dont ’e think hard of my wife, sir, for I believe there ’s a 
bit of pride in it. She’s afeard of bein’ supposed to 
catch at Richard Brownrigg, because he ’s above us, you 
know, sir. And I can’t altogether blame her, only we 
ain’t got to do with the look o’ things, but with the 
things themselves.” 

“ I understand you quite, and I ’m very much of your 
mind. You can trust me to have a little chat with him, 
can’t you?” 

“ That I can, sir.” 

Here we had come to the boundary of his garden — 
the busy stream that ran away, as if it was scared at the 
labour it had been compelled to go through, and was 
now making the best of its speed back to its mother- 
ocean, to tell sad tales of a world where every little 
brook must do some work ere it gets back to its rest. I 
bade him good day, jumped across it, and went into the 
mill, where Richard was tying the mouth of a sack, as 
gloomily as the brothers of Joseph must have tied their 
sacks after his silver cup had been found. 

“ Why did you turn away from me, as I passed halt- 
An-hour ago, Richard 1” I said, cheerily. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you saw 


me. 


l66 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


" But supposing I hadn’t 1 — But I won’t tease you. I 
Know all about it Can I do anything for you 

«No, sir. You can’t move my father. It ’s no use 
talking to him. He never hears a word anybody says. 
He never hears a word you say o* Sundays, sir. He 
won’t even believe the Mark Lane Express about the 
price of com. It ’s no use talking to him, sir.” 

“You wouldn’t mind if I were to tiy?” 

“ No, sir. You can’t make matters worse. No more 
can you make them any better, sir.” 

“ I don’t say I shall talk to him ; but I may try it, if 
I find a fitting opportunity.” 

“ He *s always worse — more obstinate, that is, when 
he ’s in a good temper. So you may choose your oppor- 
tunity wrong. But it ’s all the same. It can make no 
difierence.” 

“ What are you going to do, then V* 

“I would let him do his worst But Jane doesn’t 
like to go against her mother. I ’m sure I can’t think 
how she should side with my father against both of 
us. He never laid her under any such obligation, I ’m 
sure.” 

“There may be more ways than one of accounting 
for that. You must mind, however, and not be too hard 
upon your father. You ’re quite right in holding fe,st to 
the girl; but mind that vexation does not make you 
unjust” 

“ I wish my mother were alive. She was the only one 
that ever could manage him. How she contrived to do 
It nobody could think ; but manage him she did, some- 


THE ORGANIST. 


i6| 


how or other. There ’s not a husk of use in talking to 

himr 

“ I daresay he prides himself on not being moved by 
talk. But has he ever had a chance of knowing Jane — 
of seeing what kind of a girl she isl” 

^ He ’s seen her over and over.” 

“ But seeing isn’t always believing.” 

“ It certainly isn’t with him.” 

“ If he could only know her ! But don’t you be too 
hard upon him. And don’t do anything in a hurry. 
Give him a little time, you know. Mrs Rogers won’t 
interfere between you and Jane, I am pretty sure. But 
don’t push matters till we see. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir. — Ain’t I to see 
Jane in the meantime ? ” 

“ If I were you, I would make no difference. Sec 
her as often as you used, which I suppose was as often 
as you could. I don’t think, I say, that her mother will 
interfere. Her father is all on your side.” 

I called on Mr Brownrigg ; but, as his son had fore- 
warned me, I could make nothing of him. He didn’t 
see, when the mill was his property, ind Dick was his 
son, why he shouldn’t have his way with them. And he 
was going to have his way with them. His son might 
marry any lady in the land; and he wasn’t going to 
throw himself away that way. 

I will not weary my readers with the conversation we 
had together. All my missiles of argument were lost 
as it were in a bank of mud, the weight and resistance 
of which they only increased. My experience in the 


l68 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIOHBOUEHOODi 


attempt, however, did a little to reconcile me to his 
going to sleep in church ; for I saw that it could make 
little difference whether he was asleep or awake. He, 
and not Mr Stoddart in his organ sentry-box, was the 
only person whom it was absolutely impossible to preach 
to You might preach at him ; but to him 1 — no. 


CHAPTER X. 


IIY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 

S Christmas Day drew nearer and nearer, m| 
heart glowed with the more gladness; and 
the question came more and more pressingly 
— Could I not do something to make it more 
really a holiday of the Church for my parishioners! 
That most of them would have a little more enjoyment 
on it than they had had all the year through, I had 
ground to hope ; but I wanted to connect this gladness 
— in their minds, I mean, for who could dissever them 
in tact? — with its source, the love of God, that love 
manifested unto men in the birth of the Human Babe, 
the Son of Man. But I would not interfere with the 
Christmas Day at home. I resolved to invite as many 
of my parishioners as would come, to spend Christmas 
Eve at the Vicarage. 

I therefore had a notice to that purport affixed to the 
church door ; and resolved to send out no personal io* 



ITD ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


vitations whatever, so that I might not give offence b) 
accidental omission. The only person thrown into per- 
plexity by this mode of proceeding was Mrs Pearson. 

“ How many am I to provide for, sir 1 ” she said, with 
an injured air. 

“ For as many as you ever saw in church at one time,” 
I said. And if there should be too much, why so much 
the better. It can go to make Chpstmas Day the mer- 
rier at some of the poorer houses.” 

She looked discomposed, for she was not of an easy 
temper. But she never acted from her temper ; she only 
looked or spoke from it 

I shall want help,” she said, at length. 

** As much as you like, Mrs Pearson. I can trust you 
entirely.” 

Her face brightened ; and the end showed that I had 
not trusted her amiss. 

I was a little anxious about the result of the invitation — 
partly as indicating the amount of confidence my people 
placed in me. But although no one said a word to me 
about it beforehand except Old Rogers, as soon as the 
hour arrived, the people began to come. And the first 
I welcomed was Mr Brownrigg. 

I had had all the rooms on the ground-floor prepared 
for their reception. Tables of provision were set out in 
every one of them. My visitors had tea or coffee, with 
plenty of bread and butter, when they arrived ; and the 
more solid supplies were reserved for a later part of the 
evening. I soon found myself with enough to do. But 
before lo.ig, I had a very efficient staff For after having 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


* 7 * 


had occasion, once or twice, to mention something o£ 
my plans for the evening, I found my labours gradually 
diminish, and yet everything seemed to go right; the 
fact being that good Mr Boulderstone, in one part, had 
cast himself into the middle of the flood, and stood there 
immovable both in face and person, turning its waters 
into the right channel, namely, towards the bam, which 
I had fitted up for their reception in a body ; while in 
another quarter, namely, in the bam. Dr Duncan was 
doing his best, and that was simply something first-rate, 
to entertain the people till all should be ready. From a 
kind of instinct these gentlemen had taken upon them 
to be my staff, almost without knowing it, and very 
grateful I was. I found, too, that they soon gathered 
some of the young and more active spirits about them, 
whom they employed in various ways for the good of 
the community. 

When I came in and saw the goodly assemblage, for 1 
had been busy receiving them in the house, I could not 
help rejoicing that my predecessor had been so fond of 
farming that he had rented land in the neighbourhood 
of the vicarage, and built this large bam, of which I 
could make a hall to entertain my friends. The night 
was frosty — the stars shining brilliantly overhead — so 
that, especially for country people, there was little 
danger in the short passage to be made to it from the 
house. But, if necessary, I resolved to have a covered- 
way built before next time. For how can a man be the 
person of a parish, if he never entertains his parishioners 1 
And really, though it was lighted only with candles round 


17* AKNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


the walls, and I had not been able to do much for the 
decoration of the place, I thought it looked very well, 
and my heart was glad that Christmas Eve — just as il 
the Babe had been coming again to us that same night 
And is He not always coming to us afresh in every 
childlike feeling that awakes in the hearts of His people t 
I walked ah)ut amongst them, greeting them, and 
greeted everywhere in turn with kind smiles and heart} 
shakes of the hand. As often as I paused in my com- 
munications for a moment, it was amusing to watch Mr 
Boulderstone’s honest, though awkward endeavours to 
be at ease with his inferiors ; but Dr Duncan was just a 
sight worth seeing. Very tall and very stately, he was 
talking now to this old man, now to that young woman, 
and every face glistened towards which he turned. There 
was no condescension about him. He was as polite 
and courteous to one as to another, and the smi’e that 
every now and then lighted up his old face, was genuine 
and sympathetic. No one could have known by his 
behaviour that he was not at court. And I thought — 
Surely even the contact with such a man will do some- 
thing to refine the taste of my people. I felt more cer- 
tain than ever that a free mingling of all classes would 
do more than anything else towards binding us all into 
a wise patriotic nation ; would tend to keep down that 
foolish emulation which makes one class ape another 
from afar, like Ben Jonson^s Fungoso, “ still lighting 
short a suit;” would refine the roughness of the rude, 
and enable the polished to see with what safety his jusj 
share in public matters might be committed into the 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


173 


I inds of the honest workman. If we could once leave 
it to each other to give what honour is due ; knowing 
that honour demanded is as worthless as insult unde 
served is hurtless ! What has one to do to honour him- 
self? That is and can be no honour. When one has 
learned to seek the honour that cometh from God only, 
he will take the withholding of the honour that comes 
from men very quietly indeed. 

The only thing that disappointed me was, that there 
was no one there to represent Oldcastle Hall. But how 
could I have everything a success at oncel — And 
Catherine Weir was likewise absent. 

After we had spent a while in pleasant talk, and when 
I thought nearly all were with us, I got up on a chair at 
the end of the bam, and said : — 

‘‘ Kind friends, — I am very grateful to you for honour- 
ing my invitation as you have done. Permit me to hope 
that this meeting will be the first of many, and that from 
it may grow the yearly custom in this parish of gathering 
in love and friendship upon Christmas Eve. When God 
comes to man, man looks round for his neighbour. 
When man departed from God in the Garden of Eden, 
the only man in the world ceased to be the friend of the 
only woman in the world ; and, instead of seeking to 
bear her burden, became her accuser to God, in whom 
he saw only the Judge, unable to perceive that the 
infinite love of the Father had come to punish him in 
tenderness and grace. But when God in Jesus comes 
back to men, brothers and sisters spread forth theii ^rms 
to embrace each other, and so to embrace Him. Thw 


174 AHNALS OF A QUKIT NEIGHBOITRHOOD. 


is, when He is bom again in our souls. For, deal 
friends, what we all need is just to become little chil- 
dren like Him; to cease to be careful about man) 
things, and tmst in Him, seeking only that He should 
rule, and that we should be made good like Him. What 
else is meant by ‘ Seek ye first the kingdom of God 
and his righteousness, and all these things shall be addevl 
unto youl* Instead of doing so, we seek the things 
God has promised to look after for us, and refuse to 
seek the thing He wants us to seek — a thing that can- 
not be given us, except we seek it. We profess to 
think Jesus the grandest and most glorious of men, and 
yet hardly care to be like Him ; and so when we are 
offered His Spirit, that is. His very nature within us, 
for the asking, we will hardly take the trouble to ask for 

it. But to-night, at least, let all unkind thoughts, all 
hard judgments of one another, all selfish desires after 
our own way, be put from us, that we may welcome the 
Babe into our very bosoms; that when He comes 
amongst us — for is He not like a child still, meek and 
lowly of heart ? — He may not be troubled to find that 
we are quarrelsome, and selfish, and unjust.” 

I came down from the chair, and Mr Brownrigg being 
the nearest of my guests, and wide awake, for he had 
been standing, and had indeed been listening to every 
word according to his ability, I shook hands with hiia 
And positively there was seme meaning in the grasp 
with which he returned mine. 

I am not going to record all the proceedings of the 
evening ; but I think it may be interesting to my readers 


MT CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


*7S 


to know something of how we spent it First of all, we 
sang a hymn about the Nativity. And then I read an 
extract from a book of travels, describing the interior of 
an Eastern cottage, probably much resembling the inn 
in which our Lord was born, the stable being scarcely 
divided fron the rest of the house. For I felt that to 
open the inner eyes even of the brain, enabling people 
to see in some measure the reality of the old lovely story, 
to help them to have what the Scotch philosophers call 
a true conception of the external conditions and circum- 
stances of the events, might help to open the yet deeper 
spiritual eyes which alone can see the meaning and truth 
dwelling in and giving shape to the outward facts. And 
the extract was listened to with all the attention I could 
wish, except, at first, from some youngsters at the further 
end of the bam, who became, however, perfectly still as 
I proceeded. 

After this followed conversation, during which I talked 
a good deal to Jane Rogers, paying her particular atten- 
tion indeed, with the hope of a chance of bringing old 
Mr Brownrigg and her together in some way. 

‘‘ How is your mistress, Jane?” I said. 

“ Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here.” 

" I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next 
year.” 

“ I think she will. I am almost sure she would have 
liked to come to-night ; for I heard her say” 

“ I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting you ; but 
1 would rather not be told anything you may have 
happened to cverhear ” I said, in a low voice. 


176 ANNALS OF A QUIET NBIGHBOURHOOa 


‘‘Oh, sir!” returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; 
“ it wasn’t anything particular.” 

“ Still, if it was an)rthing on which a wrong conjecture 
might be built” — I wanted to soften it to her — “it is 
bettei that one should not be told it. Thank you for 
your kind intention, though. And now, Jane,” I said, 
“ will you do me a favour?” 

“ That I will, sir, if I can.” 

“ Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night 
to your mother.” 

“ I didn’t know any one was listening, sir.” 

“ I know you did not I came to the door with your 
father, and we stood and listened.” 

She looked very frightened. But I would not have 
asked her had I not known that she could sing like a 
bird. 

“ I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself,” she said. 

“ We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake 
of others,” I answered. 

“ I will try then, sir.” 

So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the 
speech all round. 

•* Babe Jesus lay on Mary’s lap | 

The sun shone in His hair : 

And so it was she saw, mayhap^ 

The crown already there. 

•• For she sang : ‘ Sleep on, my little King! 

Bad Herod dares not come ; 

Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing. 

Wild winds would soon be duipb. 


MT CHRISTMAS TARTY. 


*71 


“ ‘I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, 

My King, so long desired ; 

Thy hands shall never be soil’d, my swee^ 
Thy feet shall never be tired. 

“ ‘ For Thou art the King of men, my son ; 
Thy crown I see it plain ; 

And men shall worship Thee, every one^ 
And cry. Glory 1 Amen.* 

Babe Jesus open’d His eyes so wide I 
At Mary look’d her Lord. 

And Mary stinted her song and sigh’d. 
Babe Jesus said never a word.” 


When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she 
aad learned the carol ; and she answered, — 

" My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it 
of the Baby on his mother’ s knee.” 

“ I never saw it,” I said. “ Where did you get the 
tune?” 

" I thought it would go with a tune I knew ; and I 
tried it, and it did. But I was not fit to sing to you, 
sir.” 

“ You must have quite a gift of song, Jane I” I said. 

" My father and me ther can both sing.” 

Mr Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me 
and had apparently listened with some interest His 
fiice was ten degrees less stupid than it usually was. I 
&ncied I saw even a glimmer of some satisfaction in it 
I turned to Old Rogers. 

“ Sing us a song. Old Rogers,” I said. 

" I *m no canary at that, sir ; and besides, my singing 

M 


IT* ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


days be over. I advise you to ask Dr Duncan there; 
He can sing.” 

I. rose and said to the assembly : 

“ My friends, if I did not think God was pleased to 
see us enjoying ourselves, P should have no heart foi it 
myself. I am going to ask our dear friend Dr Duncan 
to give us a song. — If you please. Dr Duncan.” 

“ I am very nearly too old,” said the doctor ; but I 
Will try.” 

His voice was certainly a little feeble ; but the song 
was not much the worse for it. And a more suitable one 
for all the company he could hardly have pitched upon. 

“ There is a plough that has no share, 

But a coulter that parteth keen and fair. 

But the furrows they rise 
To a terrible size, 

Or ever the plough hath touch’d them there. 

'Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake ; 

The horses are fierce ; but the plough will break. 

And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear, 

Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear. 

Down it drops plumb, 

^ Where no spring times come ; 

And here there needeth no harrowing gear : 

Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf 
Will cover this naked ground of grie£ 

“ But a harvest-day will come at last ’ 

When the watery winter all is past ; 

The waves so gray 

Will be shorn away 

By the angels’ sickles keen and last ; 

And the buried harvest of the sea 
Stored in the barns of eternity. ” 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 




Genuine applause followed the good doctor’s song. I 
turned to Miss Boulderstone, from whom I had bor- 
rowed a piano, and asked her to play a country dance 
for us. But first I said— not getting up on a chair this 
time I — 

“ Some pec^Dle think it is not proper for a clergyman 
to dance. I mean to assert my freedom from any such 
law. If our Lord chose to represent, in His parable of 
the Prodigal Son, the joy in Heaven over a repentant 
sinner by the figure of ‘ music and dancing,’ I will 
hearken to Him rather than to men, be they as good 
as they may.” 

For I had long thought that the way to make indiffer- 
ent things bad, was for good people not to do them. 

And so saying, I stepped up to Jane Rogers, and 
asked her to dance with me. She blushed so dreadfully 
that, for a moment, I was almost sorry I had asked her. 
But she put her hand in mine at once ; and if she was a 
little clumsy, she yet danced very naturally, and I had 
the satisfaction of feeling that I had an honest girl near 
me, who I knew was friendly to me in her heart. 

But to see the faces of the people ! While I had been 
talking. Old Rogers had been drinking in every word. 
To him it was milk and strong meat in one. But now 
his face shone with a father’s gratification besides. And 
Richard’s face was glowing too. Even old Brownrigg 
looked with a curious interest upon us, I thought. 

Meantime Dr Duncan was dancing with one of his 
own patients, old Mrs Trotter, to whose wants he min- 
istered far more from his table than his surgery. I hav« 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


iSo 


known that man, hearing of a case of want from his 
servant, send the fowl he was about to dine upon, un- 
touched, to those whose necessity was greater than his. 

And Mr Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs Rogers j 
and young Brownrigg had taken Mary Weir. Thomas 
Weir did not dance at all, but looked on kindly. 

“Why don’t you dance. Old Rogers?” I said, as I 
placed his daughter in a seat beside him. 

“ Did your honour ever see an elephant go up the 
futtock-shrouds ?” 

“No. I never did.* 

“ I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I don’t dance. 
You won’t take my fun ill, sir 1 I’m an old man-o’-waris 
man, you know, sir.” 

“ I should have thought, Rogers, that you would have 
known better by this time, than make such an apology 
to me.'' 

“ God bless you, sir. An old man’s safe with you — 
or a young lass, either, sir,” he added, turning with a 
smile to his daughter. 

I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone. 

“ I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Boulderstone, for 
the help you have given me this evening. I 've seen 
you talking to everybody, just as if you had to entertain 
them all.” 

“ 1 hope I haven’t taken too much upon me. But the 
fact is, somehow or other, I don’t know how, I got into 
the spirit of it” 

“ You got into the spirit of it because you wanted it 
help me, and I thank you heartily.” 


IfY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


i8l 


“ Well, I thought it wasn’t a time to mind one’s peas 
and cues exactly. And really it’s wonderful how one 
gets on without them. I hate formality myself.” 

The dear fellow was the most formal man I had ever 
met 

“ Why don’t you dance, Mr Brownrigg?” 

“ Who ’d care to dance with me, sir ? I don’t care to 
dance with an old woman ; and a young woman won’t 
care to dance with me.” 

‘‘ I ’ll find you a partner, if you will put yourself in 
my hands.” 

‘‘ I don’t mind trusting myself to you, sir.” 

So I led him to Jane Rogers. She stood up in re^ 
spectful awe before the master of her destiny. There 
were signs of calcitration in the churchwarden, when he 
perceived whither I was leading him. But when he saw 
the girl stand trembling before him, whether it was that 
he was flattered by the signs of his own power, accept- 
ing them as homage, or that his hard heart actually 
softened a little, I cannot tell, but, after just a percept- 
ible hesitation, he said : 

Come along, my lass, and let ’s have a hop together.” 

She obeyed very sweetly. 

“ Don’t be too shy,” I whispered to her as she passed 
me. 

And the churchwarden danced very heartily with the 
lad/s-maid. 

I then asked him to take her into the house, and give 
her something to eat in return for her song. He yielded 
somewhat awkwardly, and what passed between them \ 


182 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOU 


do not know. But when they returned, she seemed less 
frightened at him than when she heard me make the 
proposal. And when the fcompany was parting, I heard 
him take leave of her with the words — 

** Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones be bygones.” 
Which kiss I heard with delight. For had I not been 
a peacemaker in this matter? And had I not then a 
right to feel blessed ? — But the understanding was brought 
about simply by making the people meet — compelling 
them, as it were, to know something of each other really. 
Hitherto this girl had been a mere name, or phantom ^ 
at best, to her lover s father ; and it was easy for him to 
treat her as such, that is, as a mere fancy of his son’s. 
The idea of her had passed through his mind ; but with 
what vividness any idea, notion, or conception could be 
present to him, my readers must judge from my descrip- 
tion of him. So that obstinacy was a ridiculously easy 
accomplishment to him. For he never had any notion 
of the matter to which he was opposed — only of that 
which he favoured. It is very easy indeed for such 
people to stick to their point 

But I took care that we should have dancing in mode 
lation. It would not do for people either to get weary 
with recreation, or excited with what was not worthy of 
producing such an effect. Indeed we had only six coun- 
try dances during the evening. That was all. And 
between the dances I read two or three of Wordsworth’s 
ballads to them, and they listened eA^en with more in- 
terest than I had been able to hope for. The fact was, 
that the happy and free hearted mood they were iu 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


183 


“ enabled the judgment^’ I wish one knew always b) 
what musical spell to produce the right mood for receiv- 
ing and reflecting a matter as it really is. Every true 
poem carries this spell with it in its own music, which it 
sends out before it as a harbinger, or properly a 
herger^ to prepare a harbour or lodging for it. But then 
it needs a quiet mood first of all, to let this music be 
listened to. 

For I thought with myself, if I could get them to likt 
poetry and beautiful things in words, it would not only 
do them good, but help them to see what is in the Bible, 
and therefore to love it more. For I never could believe 
that a man who did not find God in other places as well 
as in the Bible ever found Him there at all. And 1 
always thought, that to find God in other books enabled 
us to see clearly that he was more in the Bible than in 
any other book, or all other books put together. 

After supper we had a little more singing. And to 
my satisfaction nothing came to my eyes or ears, during 
the whole evening, that was undignified or ill-bred. Of 
course, I knew that many of them must have two beha- 
viours, and that now they were on their good behaviour. 
But I thought the oftener such were put on their good 
behaviour, giving them the opportunity of finding out 
how nice it was, the better. It might make them 
ashamed of the other at last. 

There were many little bits of conversation I over* 
heard, which I should like to give my readers; but I 
cannot dwell longer upon this part of my Annals. Espe- 
cially I should have enjoyed recording one piece of talk, 


lt4 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


in which Old Rogers was evidently trying to move a 
more directly religious feeling in the mind of Dr Dun 
:an I thought I could see that the difficulty with the 
noble old gentleman was one of expression. But after 
all the old foremast-man was a seer of the Kingdom ; 
and the other, with all his refinement, and education, 
and goodness too, was but a child in it. 

Before we parted, I gave to each of my guests a sheet 
of Christmas Carols, gathered from the older portions oi 
our literature. For most of the modem hymns are to my 
mind neither milk nor meat — mere wretched imitations. 
There were a few curious words and idioms in these, but 
I thought it better to leave them as they were ; for they 
might set them inquiring, and give me an opportunity 
of interesting them further, some time or other, in the 
history of a word ; for, in their ups and downs of for 
tune, words fare very much like human beings. 

And here is my sheet of Carols : — 

AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE. 

O blessed Well of Love I O Floure of Grace I 
O glorious Moming-Starre ! O Lampe of Light I 
Most lively image of thy Father’s face. 

Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, 

Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight. 

How can we Thee requite for all this good ? 

Or what can pri2e that Thy most precious blood t 

Yet nought Thou ask’st in lieu of all this love^ 

But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine : 

Ay me ! what can us lesse than that behove t 
Had He required life of us againe, 

Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaUief 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


.1S5 


He gave us life, He it restored lost ; 

Then life were least, that us so little cost. 

But He our life hath left unto us free. 

Free that was thr?!!, and blessed that was bann’d ; 
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, 

As He himselfe hath lov’d us afore-hand. 

And bound therto with an etemall band. 

Him first to love that us so dearely bought, 

And next our brethren, to His image wrought 

Him first to love great right and reason is, 

Who first to us our life and being gave. 

And after, when we fared had amisse. 

Us wretches from the second death did save; 

And last, the food of life, which now we have. 
Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament, 

To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent 

Then next, to love our brethren, that were made 
Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker’s hand. 
That we, and to the same againe shall fade. 

Where they shall have like heritage of land. 
However here on higher steps we stand. 

Which also were with self-same price redeemed 
That we, however of us light esteemed. 

Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth I out of thy soyle. 
In which thou wallowest like to filthy sw)mc, 

And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, 
Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne ; 

Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded e)me. 

That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold. 
And read, through love, His mercies manifold. 

Beginne from first, where He encradled was 
In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay, 

Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse. 

And in what rags, and in how base arsay, 

The glory of our heavenly riches lay, 


l86 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


When Him the silly shepheards came to see. 

Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. 

From thence reade on the storie of His life, 

His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes. 

His cancred foes, His fights. His toyle. His strife. 

His paines, His povertie. His sharpe assayes. 

Through which He past His miserable dayes, 
Offending none, and doing good to all. 

Yet being malist both by great and small. 

With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, 

Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace ; 

All other loves, with which the world doth blind 
Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base. 

Thou must renounce and utterly displace. 

And give thy selfe unto Him full and free. 

That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee. 

Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee 
With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil. 

And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see 
Th* idee of His pure glorie present still 
Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill 
With sweet enragement of celestial love. 

Kindled through sight of those faire things above. 

Spenser 


NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP. 

Behold a silly tender Babe, 

In freezing winter night. 

In homely manger trembling lies ; 
Alas ! a piteous sight. 

The inns are full, no man will yield 
This little Pilgrim bed ; 

But forced He is with silly beasts 
In crib to shroud His head 


MT CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


, 187 


Despise Him not for lying there. 

First what He Is inquire ; 

An orient pearl is often found 
In depth of dirty mire. 

Weigh not His crib. His wooden dish. 

Nor beast that by liim feed ; 

Weigh not his mother’s poor attire, 

Nor Joseph’s simple weed. 

This stable is a Prince’s court. 

The crib His chair of state ; 

The beasts are parcel of His pomp. 

The wooden dish His plate. 

The persons in that poor attire 
His royal liveries wear ; 

The Prince himself is come from heaven — 

This pomp is praised there. 

With joy approach, O Christian wight ! 

Do homage to thy King ; 

And highly praise this humble pomp 
Which He from heaven doth bring. 

Southwell 


A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS. 

I 

I, Where is this blessed Babe 
That hath made 
All the world so full of joy 
And expectation; 

That glorious Boy 

That crowns each nation 
With a triumphant wreath of blessedness? 

2, Where should He be but in the throngs 
And among 

His angel-ministers, that sing 

And take wing 


l88 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Just as may echo to His voice, 

And rejoice, 

When wing and tongue and all 
May so procure their happiness ? 

3. But He hath other waiters now. 

A poor cow, 

An ox and mule stand and behold, 

And wonder 

That a stable should enfold 

Him that c$m thunder. 
Chorus. O what a gracious God have we 1 

How good I How great ! Even as our misery. 

Jeremy Taylor. 


A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST 

Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy 5 
Awake, my glory ; sing ; 

Sing songs to celebrate the birth 
Of JacoVs God and King. 

O happy night, that brought forth light, 

Which makes the blind to see! 

The day spring from on high came down 
To cheer and visit thee. 

The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks. 

Were watchful for the mom; 

But better news from heaven was brought, 

Your Saviour Christ is bom. 

In BethUm-iown the infant lies, 

Within a place obscure, 

O little Bethleniy poor in walls, 

But rich in furniture ! 

Since heaven is now come down to earth. 

Hither the angels fly ! 

Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing 
Qlory to God pn High / 


MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


189 


The news is spread, the church is glad, 
Simeon^ o’ercome with joy. 

Sings with the infant in his arms, 

Now lei thy servant die. 

Wise men from tar beheld the star, 
Which was their faithful guide, 

Until it pointed forth the Babe, 

And Him they glorified. 

Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing — 
Shall we our Christ deny? 

He ’s born for us, and we for Him : 
Glory to God on High. 


John Mason 


CHAPTER XL 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 

NEVER asked questions about the private 
affairs of any of my parishioners, except of 
themselves individually upon occasion of 
their asking me for advice, and some conse- 
quent necessity for knowing more than they told me. 
Hence, I believe, they became the more willing that 1 
should know. But I heard a good many things from 
others, notwithstanding, for I could not be constantly 
Closing the lips of the communicative as I had done 
those of Jane Rogers. And amongst other things, I 
learned that Miss Oldcastle went most Sundays to the 
neighbouring town of Addicehead to church. Now I 
had often heard of the ability of the rector, and although 
I had never met him, was prepared to find him a culti- 
vated, if not an original man. Still, if I must be honest, 
which I hope I must, I confess that I heard the news 
with a pang, in analysing which J discovered the chief 



S’*- -K 














- ^ 


s* 




vy 








6V-< ^ .rf t-f V *'>: 

‘\i» '* ^ PtJoCTl-^ ^/’ 

m V ^ . .,- cyT« 


'^Mfer;.’ - T, ->. . ‘ ■'* . •.*.■ •* -. ..1 . ■■'^'rt ?»* 

-a .-•riv-eCT 






n. 


MTf 





.r^» 


-• -. 


\ 4 . ^ 


9 « 

:.>£r 






t 





? '■■•••• • 'iss.-,' akf^ ■ 

.. 2£K&_.. >t' - - 4- 


■ - V.< 





COULD HAVE SEEN HER FATHER IF SHE HAD LOOKED UP, BUT SHE KEPT 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


I9I 


component to be jealousy. It was no use asking myself 
why I should be jealous : there the ugly thing was. Sc 
I went and told God I was ashamed, and begged Him 
to deliver me from the evil, because His was the king- 
dom and the power and the glory. And He took my 
part against myself, for He waits to be gracious. Per- 
haps the reader may, however, suspect a deeper cause 
for this feeling (to which I would rather not give the 
true name again) than a merely professional one. 

But there was one stray sheep of my flock that appeared 
in church for the first time on the morning of Christmas 
Day — Catherine Weir. She did not sit beside her father, 
but in the most shadowy corner of the church — near the 
organ loft, however. She could have seen her father if 
she had looked up, but she kept her eyes down the whole 
time, and never even lifted them to me. The spot on 
one cheek was much brighter than that on the other, 
and made her look very ill. 

I prayed to our God to grant me the honour of speak- 
ing a true word to them all ; which honour I thought 
I was right in asking, because the Lord reproached the 
Pharisees for not seeking the honour that cometh from 
God. Perhaps I may have put a wrong interpretation 
on the passage. It is, however, a joy to think that He 
will not give you a stone, even if you should take it for 
a loaf, and ask for it as such. Nor is He, like the 
scribes, lying in wait to catch poor erring men in their 
words or their prayers, however mistaken they may be. 

I took my text from the Sermon on the Mount. And 
as the magazine for which these Annals were first written 


193 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


was intended chiefly for Sunday reading, I wrote my 
sermon just as if I were preaching it to my unseen 
readers as I spoke it to my present parishioners. And 
here it is now : 

The Gospel according to St Matthew, the sixth chapter, 
and part of the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth verses : — 

“ * Ye cannot serve God and Mammon. Ther^ore 1 
say unto you. Take no thought for your life' 

“ When the Child whose birth we celebrate with glad 
hearts this day, grew up to be a man, He said this. Did 
He mean it? — He never said what He did not mean. 
Did He mean it wholly ? — He meant it far beyond what 
the words could convey. He meant it altogether and 
entirely. When people do not understand what the 
Lord says, when it seems to them that His advice is 
impracticable, instead of searching deeper for a mean- 
ing which will be evidently true and wise, they comfort 
themselves by thinking He could not have meant it alto« 
gether, and so leave it. Or they think that if He did 
mean it, He could not expect them to carry it out. 
And in the fact that they could not do it perfectly if they 
were to try, they take refuge from the duty of trying to 
do it at all; or, oftener, they do not think about it at 
all as anything that in the least concerns them. The 
Son of our Father in heaven ma) have become a child, 
may have led the one life which belongs to every man 
to lead, may have suffered because we are sinners, may 
have died for our sakes, doing the will of His Father in 
heaven, and yet we have nothing to do with the words 


81RMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


*93 


He spoke out of the midst of His true, perfect know 
ledge> feelingj and action ! Is it not strange that it 
should be so 1 Let it not be so with us this day. Let 
us seek to find out what our Lord means> that we may 
do it ; trying and failing and trying again — verily to be 
victorious at last — what matter when^ so long as we are 
trying, and so coming nearer to our end ! 

** Mammon^ you know, means riches. Now, riches are 
meant to be the slave — not even the servant of man, 
and not to be the master. If a man serve his own ser- 
vant, or, in a word, any one who has no just claim to be 
his master, he is a slave. But here he serves his own 
slave. On the other hand, to serve God, the source of 
our being, our own glorious Father, is freedom; in 
fact, is the only way to get rid of all bondage. So you 
see plainly enough that a man cannot serve God and 
Mammon. For how can a slave of his own slave be 
the servant of the God of freedom, of Him who can 
have no one to serve Him but a free man ? His service 
is freedom. Do not, I pray you, make any confusion 
between service and slavery. To serve is the highest, 
noblest calling in creation. For even the Son of man 
came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, yea, 
with Himself. 

^^But how can a man serve riches! Why, when he 
says to riches, ‘Ye are my good.^ When he feels he 
cannot be happy without them. When he puts forth 
the energies of his nature to get them. When he 
schemes and dreams and lies awake about them. When 

he will not give to his neighbour for fear of becoming 

N 


m 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


poor himself. When he wants to have more, and to 
know he has more, than he can need. When he wants 
to leave money behind him* not for the sake of his 
children or relatives, but for the name of the wealtL 
When he leaves his money, not to those who need it, 
even of his relations, but to those who are rich like 
himself, making them yet more of slaves to the over- 
grown monster they worship for his size. When he 
honours those who have money because they have 
money, irrespective of their character; or when he 
honours in a rich man what he would not honour in 
a poor man. Then is he the slave of Mammon. Still 
more is he Mammon’s slave when his devotion to his 
god makes him oppressive to those over whom his 
wealth gives him power; or when he becomes unjust 
in order to add to his stores. — How will it be with such 
a man when on a sudden he finds that the world has 
vanished, and he is alone with God? There lies the 
body in which he used to live, whose poor necessities 
first made money of value to him, but with which itself 
and its fictitious value are both left behind. He cannot 
now even try to bribe God with a cheque. The angels 
will not bow down to him because his property, as set 
forth in his will, takes five or six figures to express its 
amount It makes no difference to them that he has 
lost it, though ; for they never respected him. And the 
poor souls of Hades, who envied him the wealth they 
had lost before, rise up as one man to welcome him, not 
for love of him — no worshipper of Mammon loves an- 
other — ^but rejoicing in the mischief tliai has befallen 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


I9S 


him, and saying, *Art thou also become one of usV 
And Lazaius in Abraham’s bosom, however sorry he may 
be for him, however grateful he may feel to him for the 
broken victuals and the penny, cannot with one drop of 
the water of Paradise cool that man’s parched tongue. 

‘‘ Alas, poor Dives ! poor server of Mammon, whose 
vile god can pretend to deliver him no longer ! Or 
rather, for the blockish god never pretended anything 
— it was the man’s own doing — Alas for the Mammon- 
worshipper! he can no longer deceive himself in his 
riches. And so even in hell he is something nobler 
than he was on earth; for he worships his riches no 
longer. He cannot. He curses them. 

“ Terrible things to say on Christmas Day ! But if 
Christmas Day teaches us anything, it teaches us to 
worship God and not Mammon ; to worship spirit and 
not matter ; to worship love and not power. 

“Do I now hear any of my friends saying in their 
hearts : Let the rich take that ! It does not apply to 
us. We are poor enough? Ah, my friends, I have 
known a light-hearted, liberal rich man lose his riches, 
and be liberal and light-hearted still. I knew a rich 
lady once, in giving a large gift of money to a poor 
man, say apologetically, ‘ I hope it is no disgrace in me 
to be rich, as it is none in you to be poor.’ It is not 
the being rich that is wrong, but the serving of riches, 
instead of making them serve your neighbour and your- 
self — your neighbour for this life, yourself for the ever- 
lasting habitations. God knows it is hard for the rich 
man to enter into the kingdom of heaven but the rich 


196 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


man does sometimes enter in; for God hath made it 
possible. And the greater the victory, when it is the 
rich man that overcometh the world. It is easier for 
the poor man to enter into the kingdom, yet many ol 
the poor have failed to enter in, and the greater is the 
disgrace of their defeat. For the poor have more done 
for them, as far as outward things go, in the way of sal- 
vation than the rich, and have a beatitude all to them- 
selves besides. For in the making of this world as a 
school of salvation, the poor, as the necessary majority, 
have been more regarded than the rich. Do not think, 
my poor friend, that God will let you off. He lets no- 
body off. You, too, must pay the uttermost farthing. 
He loves you too well to let you serve Mammon a whit 
more than your rich neighbour. ‘ Serve Mammon ! ’ do 
you say 1 ‘ How can I serve Mammon ? I have no 

Mammon to serve.^ — Would you like to have riches a 
moment sooner than God gives them? Would you serve 
Mammon if you had him? — ‘Who can tell?’ do you 
answer ? ‘ Leave those questions till I am tried.* But 
is there no bitterness in the tone of that response? 
Does it not mean, ‘ It will be a long time before I have 
a chance of trying thatV — But I am not driven to such 
questions for the chance of convicting some of you o( 
Mammon-worship. Let us look to the text Read it 
again. 

“ ‘ Yi cannot serve God and Mammon. Therefore I say 
unto ytUf Take no thought for your life' 

“Why are you to take no thought? Because you 
cannot serve God and Mammon. Is taking thought, 


glRlfON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


197 


then, a serving of Mammon ? Clearly. — Where are you 
now, poor man? Brooding over the frost? Will it 
harden the ground, so that the God of the sparrows 
cannot find food for His sons? Where are you now, 
poor woman ? Sleepless over the empty cupboard and 
to-morrow’s dinner? ‘ It is because we have no bread ?' 
do you answer? Have you forgotten the five loaves 
among the five thousand, and the fragments that were 
left ? Or do you know nothing of your Father in heaven, 
who clothes the lilies and feeds tre birds? O ye of 
little faith? O ye poor-spirited Mammon-worshippers! 
who worship him not even because he has given you 
anything, but in the hope that he ma> some future day 
benignantly regard you. But I may be too hard upon 
you. I know well that our Father sees a great difterence 
between the man who is anxious about his children’s 
dinner, or even about his own, and the man who is only 
anxious to add another ten thousand to his much goods 
laid up for many years. But you ought to find it easy 
to trust in God for such a matter as your daily bread, 
whereas no man can by any possibility trust in God for 
ten thousand pounds. The former need is a God- 
ordained necessity ; the latter desire a man-devised appe- 
tite at best — possibly swinish greed. Tell me, do you 
long to be rich? Then you worship Mammon. Tell 
me, do you think you would feel safer if you had money 
in the bank ? Then you are Mammon-worshippers ; for 
you would trust the barn of the rich man rather than the 
God who makes the corn to grow. Do you say — * What 
shall we eat ? and what shall we drink ? and wherewithal 


198 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


shall we be clothed V Are ye thus of doubtful mind I— 
Then you are Mammon-worshippers. 

But how is the work of the world to be done if we 
take no thought? — We are nowhere told not to take 
thought. We must take thought. The question is — 
What are we to take or not to take thought about 1 By 
some who do not know God, little work would be done 
if they were not driven by anxiety of some kind. But 
you, friends, are you content to go with the nations ol 
the earth, or do you seek a better way — t/ie way that the 
Father of nations would have you walk in 1 

** What then are we to take thought about? Why, 
about our work. What are we not to take thought 
about ? Why, about our life. The one is our business ; 
the other is God's. But you turn it the other way. 
You take no thought of earnestness about the doing of 
your duty ; but you take thought of care lest God should 
not fulfil His part in the goings on of the world. A 
iiia.i’s business is just to do his duty : God takes upon 
Himself the feeding and the clothing. Will the work of 
the world be neglected if a man thinks of his work, his 
duty, God’s will to be done, instead of what he is to eat, 
what he is to drink, and wherewithal he is to be clothed ? 
And remember all the needs of the world come back to 
these three You will allow, I think, that the work of 
the world will be only so much the better done ; that 
the very means of procuring the raiment or the food will 
oe the more thoroughly used. What, then, is the only 
region on which the doubt can settle ? Why, God. He 
alone remains to be doubted. Shall it be so with you 1 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


199 


Shall the Son of man, the baby now born, and for evei 
with us, find no faith in you 1 Ah, my poor friend, who 
canst not trust in God — I was going to say you desei'vt 
— but what do I know of you to condemn and judge 
you 1 — I was going to say, you deserve to be treated like 
the child who fret§ and complains because his mother 
holds him on her knee and feeds him mouthful by 
mouthful with her own loving hand. I meant — you 
deserve to have your own way for a while ; to be set 
down, and told to help yourself, and see what it will 
come to j to have your mother open the cupboard door 
for you, and leave you alone to your pleasures. Alas ! 
poor child ! When the sweets begin to pall, and the 
twilight begins to come duskily into the chamber, and 
you look about all at once and see no mother, how will 
your cupboard comfort you then? Ask it for a smile, 
for a stroke of the gentle hand, for a word of love. All 
the full-fed Mammon can give you is what your mother 
would have given you without the consequent loathing, 
with the light of her countenance upon it all, and the 
arm of her love around you. — And this is what God 
does sometimes, I think, with the Mammon-worshippers 
amongst the poor. He says to them. Take your Mammon, 
and see what he is worth. Ah, friends, the children oi 
God can never be happy serving other than Him. The 
prodigal might fill his belly with riotous living or with 
the husks t'lat the swine ate. It was all one, so long as 
he was not with his father. His soul was wretched. So 
would you be if you had wealth, for I fear you would 
only be worse Mammon-woi shippers than now, and might 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


well have to thank God for the miscfy of any swine- 
trough that could bring you to your senses. 

** But we do see people die of starvation sometimes i 
—Yes. But if you did your work in God’s name^ an^l 
left the rest to Him, that would not trouble you. You 
would say, If it be God’s will that I should starve, I can 
starve as well as another. And your mind would be at 
ease. ‘ Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind 
is stayed upon Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.’ Oi 
that I am sure. It may be good for you to go hungry 
and bare-foot; but it must be utter death to have no 
faith in God. It is not, however, in God’s way of things 
that the man who does his work shall not live by it. 
We do not know why 'here and there a man may be left 
to die of hunger, but I do believe that they who wait 
upon the Lord shall not lack any good. What it may 
be good to deprive a man of till he knows and acknow- 
ledges whence it comes, it may be still better to give 
him when he has learned that every good and every per- 
fect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father 
of lights. 

** I should like to know a man who just minded his 
duty and troubled himself about nothing ; who did his 
own work and did not interfere with God’s. How noblj 
he would work — working not for reward, but because it 
was the will of God! How happily he would receive 
his food and clothing, receiving them as the gifts o( 
God ! What peace would be his I What a sober gaiety • 
How hearty and infectious his laughter ! What a frien<l 
he would be ! How sweet his sympathy ! And his 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


201 


mind would be so clear he would understand everything 
His eye being single, his whole body would be full of 
light No fear of his ever doing a mean thing. He 
would die in a ditch rather. It is this fear of want that 
makes men do mean things. They are afraid to part 
with their precious lord — Mammon. He gives no safety 
against such a fear. One of the richest men in England 
is haunted with the dread of the workhouse. This man 
whom I should like to know, would be sure that God 
would have him liberal, and he would be what God 
would have him. Riches are not in the least necessary 
to that Witness our Lord’s admiration of the poor 
widow with her great farthing. 

** But I think I hear my troubled friend who does not 
love money, and yet cannot trust in God out and out, 
though she fain would, — I think I hear her say, ‘ I be- 
lieve I could trust Him for myself, or at least I should 
be ready to dare the worst for His sake ; but my children 
— it is the thought of my children that is too much for 
me.’ Ah, woman ! she whom the Saviour praised so 
pleasedly, was one who trusted Him for her daughter. 
What an honour she had ! ‘ Be it unto thee even as 
thou wilt’ Do you think you love your children better 
than He who made them 1 Is not your love what it is 
because He put it into your heart first 1 Have not you 
often been cross with them 1 Sometimes unjust to them ? 
Whence came the returning love that rose from unknown 
depths in your being, and swept away the anger and the 
injustice 1 You did not create that love. Probably you 
were not good enough to send for it by prayer. But it 


902 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


came. God sent it He makes you love your children ; 
be sorry when you have been cross with them ; ashamed 
when you have been unjust to them ; and yet you won’t 
trust Him to give them food and clothes ! Depend 
upon it, if He ever refuses to give them food and clothes, 
and you knev' all about it, the why and the wherefore 
you would not dare to give them food or clothes either. 
He loves them a thousand times better than you do — be 
sure of that — and feels for their sufferings too, when He 
cannot give them just what He would like to give them 
— cannot for their good, I mean. 

“ But as your mistrust will go further, I can go furthei 
to meet it You will say, * Ah ! yes’ — in your feeling, I 
mean, not in words, — you will say, ‘ Ah ! yes — food and 
clothing of a sort! Enough to keep life in and too 
much cold out ! But I want my children to have plenty 
of good food, and nice clothes.* 

“ Faithless mother ! Consider the birds of the air. 
They have so much that at least they can sing ! Con- 
sider the lilies — they were red lilies, those. Would you 
not trust Him who delights in glorious colours— more at 
least than you, or He would never have created them 
and made us to delight in them? I do not say that 
your children shall be clothed in scarlet and fine linen ; 
but if not, it is not because God despises scarlet and 
fine linen or does not love your children. He loves 
them, I say, too much to give them everything all at 
once. But He would make them such that they may 
have eveiything without being the worse, and witJi being 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


203 


the better for it. And if you cannot trust Him yet> it 
begins to be a shame, I think. 

“ It has been well said that no man ever sank under 
the burden of the day. It is when to-morrow’s burden 
is added to the burden of to-day, that the weight is more 
than a man can bear. Never load yourselves so, my 
friends. If you find yourselves so loaded, at least re- 
member this: it is your own doing, not God’s, He 
begs you to leave the future to Him, and mind the pre- 
sent. What more or what else could He do to take the 
burden off you ? Nothing else would do it. Money in 
the bank wouldn’t do it* He cannot do to-morrow’s 
business for you beforehand to save you from fear about 
it That would derange everything. What else is there 
but to tell you to trust in Him, irrespective of the fact 
that nothing else but such trust can put our heart at 
peace, from the very nature of our relation to Him as 
well as the fact that we need these things. W’c think 
that we come nearer to God than the lower animals do 
by our foresight But there is another side to it We 
are like to Him with whom there is no past or future, 
with whom a day is as a thousand years, and a thousand 
years as one day, when we live with large bright spiritual 
eyes, doing our work in the great present, leaving both 
past and future to Him to whom they are ever present, 
and fearing nothing, because He is in our future, as 
much as He is in our past, as much as, and far more 
than, we can feel Him to be in our present. Partakers 
thus of the divine nature, resting in that perfect AU-in-aU 




104 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


In whom our nature is eternal too, we walk without fear, 
full of hope and courage and strength to do His will, 
waiting for the endless good which He is always giving 
as fast as He can get us able to take it in. Would not 
this be to be more of gods than Satan promised to Eve 1 
To live carelessly -divine, duty- doing, fearless, loving, 
self-forgetting lives — is not that more than to know both 
good and evil — lives in which the good, like Aaron's 
rod, has swallowed up the evil, and turned it into good 1 
For pain and hunger are evils; but if faith in God 
swallows them up, do they not so turn into good? I 
say they do. And I am glad to believe that I am not 
alone in my parish in this conviction. I have never 
been too hungry, but I have had trouble which I would 
gladly have exchanged for hunger and cold and weari- 
ness. Some of you have known hunger and cold and 
weariness. Do you not join with me to say : It is well, 
and better than well — whatever helps us to know the 
love of Him who is our God ? 

" But there ^ just one man who has acted thus. 
And it is His Spirit in our hearts that makes us desire 
to know or to be another such — who would do the will 
of God for God, and let God do God's will for Him. 
For His will is all. And this man is the baby whose 
birth we celebrate this day. Was this a condition to 
choose — that of a baby — ^by one who thought it part of 
a man’s high calling to take care of the morrow? Did 
He not thus cast the whole matter at once upon the 
hands and heart of His Father? Sufficient unto the 
baby’s day is the need thereof; he toils not, neither 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


20S 


does he spin, and yet he is- fed and clothed, and loved, 
and rejoiced in. Do you remind me that sometimes 
even his mothei forgets him — a mother, most likely, to 
whose self-indulgence or weakness the child owes his 
birth as hers 1 Ah ! but he is not therefore forgotten* 
however like things it may look to our half-seeing eyes, 
by his Father in heaven. One of the highest benefits * 
we can reap from understanding the way of God with 
ourselves is, that we become able thus to trust Him for 
others with whom we do not understand His ways. 

“ But let us look at what will be more easily shown — 
how, namely, He did the will of His Father, and took 
no thought for the morrow after He became a man. 
Remember how He forsook His trade when the time 
came for Him to preach. Preaching was not a profes- 
sion then. There were no monasteries, or vicarages, or 
stipends, then. Yet witness for the Father the garment 
woven throughout; the ministering of women; the 
purse in common ! Hard-working men and rich ladies 
were ready to help Him, and did help Him with all that 
He needed. — Did He then never want ? Yes ; once at 
least — for a little while only. 

‘‘ He was a -hungered in the wilderness. ‘ Make 
liread,* said Satan. ‘ No,* said our Lord. — He . could 
starve ; but He could not eat bread that His Father did 
not give Him, even though He could make it Himself. 

He had come hither to be tried. But when the victory 
was secure, lo I the angels brought Him food from His 
Father. — ^Which was better? To feed Himself, or be 
fed by His Fathe'? Judge yourselves, anxious people. 


f06 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


He sought the kingdom of God and His righteousness, 
and the bread was added unto Him. 

And this gives me occasion to remark that the same 
truth holds with regard to any portion of the future as 
well as the morrow. It is a principle, not a command, 
or an encouragement, or a promise merely. In respect 
of it there is no difference between next day and next 
year, next hour and next century. You will see at once 
the absurdity of taking no thought for the morrow, and 
taking thought for next year. But do you see likewise 
that it is equally reasonable to trust God for the next 
moment, and equally unreasonable not to trust Him^ 
The Lord was hungry and needed food now, though He 
could still go without for a while. He left it to His 
Father. And so He told His disciples to do when they 
were called to answer before judges and rulers. ‘ Take 
no thought. It shall be given you what ye shall say.* 
You have a disagreeable duty to do at twelve o’clock. 
Do not blacken nine and ten and eleven, and all be- 
tween, with the colour of twelve. Do the work of each, 
and reap your reward in peace. So when the dreaded 
moment in the future becomes the present, you shall 
meet it walking in the light, and that light will overcome 
its darkness. How often do men who have made up 
their minds what to say and do under certain expected 
circumstances, forget the words and reverse the actions ! 
The best preparation is the present well seen to, the last 
duty done. For this will keep the eye so clear and the 
body so full of light that the right action will be per- 
ceived at once, the right words will rush from the he^ 


SERMON ON GOB AND MAMMON. 


207 


to the lips, anc the man, full of the Spirit of God bo 
cause he cares for nothing but the will of God, will 
trample on the evil thing in love, and be sent, it may 
be, in a chariot of fire to the presence of his Father, or 
stand unmoved amid the cruel mockings of the men he 
loves. 

“ Do you feel inclined to say in your hearts : ‘ It was 
easy for Him to take no thought, for He had the matter 
in His own hands'?’ But observe, there is nothing very 
noble in a man’s taking no thought except it be from 
faith. If there were no God to take thought for us, 
we should have no right to blame any one for taking 
thought. You may fancy the Lord had His own power 
to fall back upon. But that would have been to Him 
just the one dreadful thing. That His Father should 
forget Him ! — no power in Himself could make up for 
that. He feared nothing for Himself j and never once 
employed His divine power to save Him from His 
human fate. Let God do that for Him if He saw fit. 
He did not come into the world to take care of Him- 
self. That would not be in any way divine. To fall 
back on Himself, God failing Him — how could that 
make it easy for Him to avoid care? The very idea 
would be torture. That would be to declare heaven 
void, and the world without a God. He would not 
even pray to His Father for what He knew He should 
have if He did ask it. He would just wait His will. 

** But see how the fact of His own power adds tenfold 
significance to the fact that He trusted in God. We see 
that this powe* would not serve His need — His need 


90S 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


^lot be.ng to be fed and clothed, but to be one with the 
Father, to be fed by His hand, clothed by His care. 
This was what the Lord wanted — and we need, alas! 
too often without wanting it He never once, I repeat, 
used His power for Himself. That was not his business. 
He did not care about it His life was of no value to 
Him but as His Father cared for it God would mind 
all that was necessary for Him, and He would mind 
the work His Father had given Him to do. And, my 
friends, this is just the one secret of a blessed life, the 
one thing every man comes into this world to learn. 
With what authority it comes to us from the lips of Him 
who knew all about it, and ever did as He said ! 

“ Now you see that He took no thought for the 
morrow. And, in the name of the holy child Jesus, I 
call upon you, this Christmas day, to cast care to the 
winds, and trust in God ; to receive the message of peace 
and good will to men ; to yield yourselves to the Spirit 
of God, that you may be taught what He wants you to 
know ; to remember that the one gift promised without 
reserve to those who ask it — the one gift worth having 
— the gift which makes all other gifts a thousand-fold in 
value, is the gift of the Holy Spirit, the spirit of the child 
Jesus, who will take of the things of Jesus, and show 
them to you — make you understand them, that is — so 
that you shall see them to be true, and love Him with 
all your heart and soul, and your neighbour as yo’ir- 
selves.” 

And hp^e, having finished my sern>on, I will give nif 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


aoQ 


reader some lines with which he may not be acquainted, 
from a writer of the Elizabethan time. I had meant to 
introduce them into my sermon, but I was so carried 
away with my subject that I forgot them. For I always 
preached extempore^ which phrase 1 beg my reader will 
not misinterpret as meaning on the spur of the moment, or 
without the due preparation of much thought 

** O man ! thou image of thy Maker’s good. 

What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood 
His Spirit is that built thee ? What dull sense 
Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence 
Who made the morning, and who placed the light 
Guide to thy labours ; who called up the night, 

And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers, 

In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers ; 

Who gave thee knowledge ; who so trusted thee 
To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree? 

Must He then be distrusted? Shall His frame 
Discourse with Him why thus and thus I am ? 

He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all ; 

Nay even thy servants, when devotions call. 

Oh 1 canst thou be so stupid then, so dim. 

To seek a saving ♦ influence, and lose Him? 

Can stars protect thee ? Or can poverty. 

Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye? 

He is my star ; in Him all truth I find. 

All influence, all fate. And when my mind 
Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story 
Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory. 

The hand of danger cannot fall amiss. 

When I know what, and in whose power, it is, 

Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan i 

A holy hermit is a mind alone. 

• * • • 


• Many, in those days, believed in astrology. 

O 


no 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Affliction, when I know it, is but this, 

A deep alloy whereby man tougher is 
To bear the hammer ; and the deeper still. 

We still arise more image of His will ; 

Sickness, an humorous cloud ’twixt us and light ; 

And death, at longest, but another night.” 

I had more than ordinary attention during my dis- 
course, at one point in which I saw the down-bent head 
of Catherine Weir sink yet lower upon her hands. Aftei 
a moment, however, she sat more erect than before, 
though she never lifted her eyes to meet mine. I need 
not assure my reader that she was not present to my 
mind when I spoke the words that so far had moved 
her. Indeed, had I thought of her, I could not have 
spoken them. 

As I came out of the church, my people crowded 
about me with outstretched hands and good wishes. 
One woman, the aged wife of a more aged labourer, 
who could not get near me, called from the outskirts oi 
the little crowd — 

“ May the Lord come and see ye every day, sir. And 
may ye never know the hunger and cold as me and 
Tomkins has come through.” 

‘‘Amen to the first of your blessing, Mrs Tomkins, 
and hearty thanks to you. But I daren’t say Amen to 
the other part of it, after what I Ve been preaching, you 
know.” 

“ But there ’ll be no harm if I say it for ye, sir?” 

" No, for Goa* will give me what is good, even if yotu 
kind heart should pray against 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


an 


** Ah, sir, ye don’t know what it is to be hungry and 
cold.” 

“ Neither shall you any more, if I can help it.” 

“ God bless ye, sir. But we ’re pretty tidy just in the 
meantime.” 

I walked home, as usual on Sunday mornings, by the 
road. It was a lovely day. The sun shone so warm 
that you could not help thinking of what he would be 
able to do before long — draw primroses and buttercups 
out of the earth by force of sweet persuasive influences. 
But in the shadows lay fine webs and laces of ice, so 
delicately lovely that one could not but be glad of the 
cold that made the water able to please itself by taking 
such graceful forms. And I wondered over again for 
the hundredth time what could be the principle which, 
in the wildest, most lawless, fantastically chaotic, appar- 
ently capricious work of nature, always kept it beautiful. 
The beauty of holiness must be at the heart of it some- 
how, I thought. Because our God is so free from stain, 
so loving, so unselfish, so good, so altogether what He 
wants us to be, so holy, therefore all His works declare 
Him in beauty ; His fingers can touch nothing but to 
mould it into loveliness ; and even the play of His ele- 
ments is in grace and tenderness of form. 

And then I thought how the sun, at the farthest point 
from us, had begun to come back towards us ; looked 
upon us with a hopeful smile ; was like the Lord when 
He visited His people as a little one of themselves, to 
grow upon the earth till it should blossom as the rose in 
the light of His presence. " Ah 1 Lord,” I said, in mj 


S12 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOU. 


heart, “ draw near unto Thy people. It is spring-time 
with Thy world, but yet we have cold winds and bittei 
hail, and pinched voices forbidding them that follow 
Thee and follow not with us. Draw nearer, Sun of 
Righteousness, and make the trees bourgeon, and the 
flowers blossom, and the voices grow mellow and glad, 
so that all shall join in praising Thee, and find thereby 
that harmony is better than unison. Let it be summer, 
O Lord, if it ever may be s immer in this court of the 
Gentiles. But Thou hast told us that Thy kingdom 
cometh within us, and so Thy joy must come within us 
too. Draw nigh then. Lord, to those to whom Thou 
wilt draw nigh ; and others beholding their welfare will 
seek to share therein too, and seeing their good works 
will glorify their Father in heaven.” 

So I walked home, hoping in my Saviour, and won- 
dering to think how pleasant I had found it to be His 
poor servant to this people. Already the doubts which 
had filled my mind on that first evening of gloom, 
doubts as to whether I had any right to the priest’s 
office, had utterly vanished, slain by the effort to per- 
form the priest’s duty. I never thought about the mat- 
ter now. — And how can doubt ever be fully met but by 
action 1 Try your theory ; try your hypothesis ; or if it 
is not worth trying, give it up, pull it down. And I 
hoped that if ever a cloud should come over me again, 
however dark and dismal it might be, I might be able 
notwithstanding to rejoice that the sun was shining on 
others though not on me, and to say with all my heart 
to my Father in heaven^ “ Thy will be done.” 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 




When I reached my own study, I sat down by a blaz- 
ing fire, and poured myself out a glass of wine j for I 
had to go out again to see some of my poor friends, and 
wanted some luncheon first. — It is a great thing to have 
the greetings of the universe presented in fire and food. 
Let me, if I may, be ever welcomed to my room in win- 
ter by a glowing hearth, in summer by a vase of flowers; 
if I may not, let me then think how nice they would be, 
and bury myself in my work. I do not think that the 
road to contentment lies in despising what we have not 
got. Let us acknowledge all good, all delight that the 
world holds, and be content without it. But this we 
can never be except by possessing the one thing, without 
which I do not merely say no man ought to be content, 
but no man can be content — the Spirit of the Father. 

If any young people read my little chronicle, will they 
not be inclined to say, “ The vicar has already given us 
in this chapter hardly anything but a long sermon ; and 
it is too bad of him to go on preaching in his study after 
we saw him safe out of the pulpit”? Ah, well ! just one 
word, and I drop the preaching for a while. My word 
is this : I may speak long-windedly, and even incon- 
siderately as regards my young readers; what I say 
may fail utterly to convey what I mean; I may be 
actually stupid sometimes, and not have a suspicion of 
it ; but what I mean is true ; and if you do not know 
it to be true yet, some of you at least suspect it to be 
true, and some of you hope it is true; and when you 
all see it as I mean it and as you can take it, you will 
rejoice with a gladness you know nothing about now. 


214 ANNALS OF A ^UIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


There, 1 have done for a little while. I won’t pledge 
myself for more, I assure you. For to speak about such 
things is the greatest delight of my age, as it was of my 
early manhood, next to that of loving God and my 
neighbour. For as these are the two commandments 
of life, so they are in themselves the pleasures of life. 
But there I am at it again. I beg your pardon now, for 
I .have already inadvertently broken my promise. 

I had allowed myself a half-hour before the fire with 
my glass of wine and piece of bread, and I soon fell 
into a dreamy state called reverie^ which I fear not a 
few mistake for thinking, because it is the nearest ap- 
proach they ever make to it. And in this reverie I kept 
staring about my book-shelves. — I am an old man now, 
and you do not know my name ; and if you should ever 
find it out, I shall very soon hide it under some daisies, 
I hope, and so escape ; and therefore I am going to be 
egotistic in the most unpardonable manner. I am going 
to tell you one of my faults, for it continues, I fear, to 
be one of my faults still, as it certainly was at the period 
of which I am now writing. I am very fond of books. 
Do not mistake me. I do not mean that I love reading. 
I hope I do. That is no fault — a virtue rather than a 
fault. But, as the old meaning of the word fond was 
foolish, I use that word : I am foolishly fond of the 
bodies of books as distinguished from their souls, or 
thought-element. I do not say I love their bodies as 
divided from their souls ; I do not say I should let a 
book stand upon my shelves for which I felt no respect, 
except indeed it happened to be useful to me in some 


• BKBION ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


aiS 


inferior way. But I delight in seeing books about me, 
books even of which there seems to be no prospect that 
I shall have time to read a single chapter before I lay 
this old head down for the last time. Nay, more : I 
confess that if they are nicely bound, so as to glow and 
shine in such a fire-light as that by which I was then 
sitting, I like them ever so much the better. Nay, more 
yet — and this comes very near to showing myself worse 
than I thought I was when I began to tell you my fault : 
there are books upon my shelves which certainly at least 
would not occupy the place of honour they do occupy, 
had not some previous owner dressed them far beyond, 
their worth, making modem apples of Sodom of them. 
Yet there I let them stay, because they are pleasant to 
the eye, although certainly not things to be desired to 
make one wise. I could say a great deal more about 
the matter, pro and con^ but it would be worse than a 
sermon, I fear. For I suspect that by the time books, 
which ought to be loved for the truth that is in them, 
of one sort or another, come to be loved as articles of 
furniture, the mind has gone through a process more 
than analogous to that which the miser's mind goes 
through — namely, that of passing from the respect of 
money because of what it can do, to the love of money 
because it is money. I have not yet reached the fiimi* 
ture stage, and I do not think I ever shall. I would 
rather burn them all. Meantime, I think one safe- 
guard is to encourage one’s friends to borrow one’s 
books— not to offer individual books, which is much 
the same as offering advice. That will probably take 


9i6 annals of a ouiet neighbourhood. 


some of the shine off them, and put a few thumb-marks 
in them, which both are very wholesome towards the 
arresting of the furniture declension. For my part, 
thumb-marks I find very obnoxious — far more so than 
the spoiling of the binding. — I know that some of my 
readers, who have had sad experience of the sort, will 
be saying in themselves, ‘‘ He might have mentioned a 
surer antidote resulting from this measure, than either 
rubbed Russia or dirty g/ove-maiks even — that of utter 
disappearance and irreparable loss.” But no ; that has 
seldom happened to me — because I trust my pocket- 
book, and never my memory, with the names of those 
to whom the individual books are committed. — ^There, 
then, is a little bit of practical advice in both directions 
for young book-lovers. 

Again I am reminded that I am getting old. What 
digressions ! 

Gazing about on my treasures, the thought suddenly 
struck me that I had never done as I had promised 
Judy; had never found out what her aunt’s name meant 
in Anglo-Saxon. I would do so now. I got down my 
dictionary, and soon discovered that Ethelwyn meant 
Home-joy^ or Inheritance, 

** A lovely meaning,” I said to myself. 

And then I went off into another reverie, with the 
composition of which I shall not trouble my reader ; and 
with the mention of which I had, perhaps, no right to 
occupy the fragment of his time spent in reading it, see- 
ing 1 did not intend to tell him how it was made up. ] 
will tell him something else instead. 


SIRMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


«7 


Several families had asked me to take my Christmas 
dinner with them ; but, not liking to be thus limited, I 
had answered each that I would not, if they would 
excuse me, but would look in some time or other in the 
course of the evening. 

When my half-hour was out, I got up and filled my 
pockets with little presents for my poor people, and set 
out to find them in their own homes. 

I was variously received, but unvaryingly with kind- 
ness ; and my little presents were accepted, at least in 
most instances, with a gratitude which made me ashamed 
of them and of myself too for a few moments. Mrs 
Tomkins looked as if she had never seen so much tea 
together before, though there was only a couple of 
pounds of it ; and her husband received a pair of warm 
trousers none the less cordially that they were not quite 
new, the fact being that I found I did not myself need 
such warm clothing this winter as I had needed the last. 
I did not dare to offer Catherine Weir anything, but I 
gave her little boy a box of water-colours — in remem- 
brance of the first time I saw him, though I said nothing 
about that. His mother did not thank me. She told 
little Gerard to do so, however, and that was something. 
And, indeed, the boy’s sweetness would have been enough 
for both. 

Gerard — an unusual name in England ; specially not 
to be looked for in the class to which she belonged. 

When I reached Old Rogers’s cottage, whither I carried 
a few yards of ribbon, bought by myself, I assure my 
lady friends, with the special object that the colour 


tl8 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


should be bright enough for her taste, and pure enough 
of its kind for mine, as an offering to the good dame, 
and a small hymn-book, in which were some hymns of 
my own making, for the good man — 

But do forgive me, friends, for actually describing my 
paltry presents. I can dare to assure you it comes from 
a talking old man’s love of detail, and from no admira- 
tion of such small givings as those. You see I trust 
you, and I want to stand well with you. I never could 
be indifferent to what people thought of me ; though I 
have had to fight hard to act as freely as if I were in- 
different, especially when upon occasion I found myself 
approved of. It is more difficult to walk straight then, 
than when men are all against you. — As I have already 
broken a sentence, which will not be past setting for a 
while yet, I may as well go on to say here, lest any one 
should remark that a clergyman ought not to show off 
his virtues, nor yet teach his people bad habits by mak- 
ing them look out for presents — that my income not 
only seemed to me disproportioned to the amount of 
labour necessary in the parish, but certainly was larger 
than I required to spend upon myself ; and the miserly 
passion for books I contrived to keep a good deal in 
check ; for I had no fancy for gliding devil-wards for the 
sake of a few books after all. So there was no great 
virtue— was there ? — in easing my heart by giving a few 
of the good things people give their children to my poor 
friends, whose kl»^d reception of them gave me as much 
pleasure as the gifts gave them. They valued the kind 


SKRMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


219 


ness in the gift, and to look out for kindness will not 
make people greedy. 

When I reached the cottage, I found not merely Jane 
there with her father and mother, which was natural on 
Christmas Day, seeing there seemed to be no company 
at the Hall, but my little Judy as well, sitting *in the old 
woman’s arm-chair, (not that she used it much, but it 
was called hers,) and looking as much at home as — as 
she did in the pond. 

“ Why, Judy !” I exclaimed, “you here!” 

“ Yes. Why not, Mr Walton?” she returned, holding 
out her hand without rising, for the chair was such a 
large one, and she was set so far back in it that the 
easier way was not to rise, which, seeing she was not 
greatly overburdened with reverence, was not, I presume, 
a cause of much annoyance to the little damsel. 

“ I know no reason why I shouldn’t see a Sandwich 
Islander here. Yet I might express surprise if I did 
find one, might I not?” 

Judy pretended to pout, and muttered something 
about comparing her to a cannibal. But Jane took up 
the explanation. 

“ Mistress had to go off to London with her mother 
to day, sir, quite unexpected, on some banking busi- 
ness, I fancy, from what I 1 beg your pardon, sir. 

They’re gone anyhow, whatever the reason may bej 
and so I came to see my father and mother, and Misf 
I ndy would come with me.” 

“ ,She ’s ^^ery welcome,” said Mrs Rogers. 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


aso 


** How could I stay up there with nobody but Jacoby 
and that old wolf Sarah t I wouldn’t be left alone with 
her for the world. She ’d have me in the Bishop’s Poo?, 
before you came back, Janey dear.” 

“ That wouldn’t matter much to you, would it, Judy?” 
I said. 

“ She ’s a white wolf, that old Sarah, I know V' was 
all her answer. 

“ But what will the old lady say when she finds you 
brought the young lady here?” asked Mrs Rogers. 

“ I didn’t bring her, mother. She would come.” 

“ Besides, she ’ll never know it,” said Judy. 

I did not see that it was my part to read Judy a 
lecture here, though perhaps I might have done so if I 
had had more influence over her than I had. I wanted 
to gain some influence over her, and knew that the way 
to render my desire impossible of fulfilment would be, 
to find fault with what in her was a very small affair, 
whatever it might be in one who had been properly 
brought up. Besides, a clergyman is not a moral police- 
man. So I took no notice of the impropriety. 

“ Had they actually to go away on the morning ol 
Christmas Day?” I said. 

“ They went anyhow, whether they had to do it or not, 
sir,” answered Jane. 

“Aunt Ethelw)m didn’t want to go till to-morrow,” 
said Judy. “ She said something about coming to church 
this morning. But grannie said they must go at once. 
It was very cross of old grannie. Think what a Christ- 
mas Day to me without auntie, and with Sarah ! But 1 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


221 


doD*t mean to go home till it *s quite dark. I mean to 
stop here with dear Old Rogers — that I do.” 

The latch was gently lifted, and in came young 
Brownrigg. So I thought it was time to leave my best 
Christmas wishas and take myself away. Old Rogers 
came with me to the mill-stream as usual. 

“ It ’mazes me, sir,” he said, “ a gentleman o’ your 
age and bringin’ up to know all that you lould us this 
momin’. It ’ud be no wonder now for a man like me, 
come to be the shock o’ corn fully ripe — leastways yal- 
low and white enough outside if there bean’t much more 
than milk inside it yet,— it ’ud be no mystery for a man 
like me who ’d been brought up hard, and tossed about 
well-nigh all the world over — why, there ’s scarce a wave 
on the Atlantic but knows Old Rogers !” 

He made the parenthesis with a laugh, and began 
anew. 

“ It ’ud be a shame of a man like me not to know all 
as you said this mornin’, sir — leastways I don’t mean 
able to say it right off as you do, sir ; but not to know 
it, after the Almighty had been at such pains to beat it 
into my hard head just to trust in Him and fear no- 
thing and nobody — captain, bosun, devil, sunk rock, or 
breakers ahead ; but just to mind Him and stand by hal- 
liard, brace, or wheel, or hang on by the leeward earing 
for that matter. For, you see, what does it signify whe- 
ther I go to the bottom or not, so long as I didn’t skulk 1 
or rather,” and here the old man took off his hat and 
looked up, “ so long as the Great Captain has His way, 
4nd things is done to His mind ? But how ever a man 


222 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


like you, goin* to the college, and readin’ books, and 
warm o’ nights, and never, by your own confession this 
blessed mornin’, sir, knowin’ what it was to be downright 
hungry, how ever you come to know all those things, is 
just past my comprehension, except by a double portion 
o’ the Spirit, sir. And that ’s the way I account for it, 
sir.” 

Although I knew enough about a ship to understand 
the old man, I am not sure that I have properly repre- 
sented his sea-plirase. But that is of small consequence, 
so long as I give his meaning. And a meaning can oc- 
casionally be even better conveyed by less accurate words. 

“ 1 will try to tell you how I come to know about 
these things as I do,” I returned. “ How my knowledge 
may stand the test of further and severer trials remains 
to be seen. But if I should fail any time, old friend, and 
neither trust in God nor do my duty, what I have said 
to you remains true all the same.” 

“ That it do, sir, whoever may come short” 

“ And more than that : failure does not necessarily 
prove any one to be a hypocrite of no faith. He may 
be still a man of little faith.” 

“ Surely, surely, sir. I remember once that my faith 
broke down — just for one moment, sir. And then the 
Lord gave me my way lest I should blaspheme Him in 
my wicked heart” 

“ How was that, Rogers t” 

“ A scream came from the quarter-deck, and then the 
cry : * Child overboard !’ There was but one child, the 
captai»'’s. aboard. I was sitting just aft the foremast. 


SKRMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


233 


hening-boning a split in a spare jib. I sprang to the 
bulwark, and there, sure enough, was the child, going 
fast astam, but pretty high in the water. How it hap- 
pened I can’t think to this day, sir, but I suppose my 
needle, in the hurry, had got into my jacket, so as to 
skewer it to my jersey, for we were far south of the line 
at the time, sir, and it was cold. However that may be, 
as soon as I was overboard, which you may be sure 
didn’t want the time I take tellin’ of it, I found that I 
ought to ha* pulled my jacket off afore I gave the bul- 
wark the last kick. So I rose on the water, and began 
to pull it over my head — for it was wide, and that was 
the easiest way, I thought, in the water. But when I 
had got it right over my head, there it stuck. And there 
was I, blind as a Dutchman in a fog, and in as strait a 
jacket as ever poor wretch in Bedlam, for I could only 
just wag my flippers. Mr Walton, I believe I swore — 
the Lord forgive me ! — but it was trying. And what was 
far worse, for one moment I disbelieved in Him ; and I 
do say that *s worse than swearing — in a hurry I mean. 
And that moment something went, the jacket was off, 
and there was I feelin* as if every stroke I took was as 
wide as the mainyard. I had no time to repent, only to 
thank God. And wasn’t it more than I deserved, sirl 
Ah I He can rebuke a man for unbelief by giving him 
the desire of his heart. And that’s a better rebuke than 
tying him up to the gratings.” 

** And did you save the child I” 

“ Oh yes, sir.” 

“And wasn’t the captain pleasecT^” 


124 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** I believe he was, sir. He gave me a glass o’ gi\5g, 
sir. But you was a sayin’ of something, sir, when I in- 
terrupted of you.” 

“lam very glad you did interrupt me.” 

“ I ’m not though, sir. I Ve lost summat I ’ll nevei 
hear more.” 

“ No, you shan’t lose U. I was going to tell you how 
I think I came to understand a little about the things I 
was talking of to-day.” 

“ That ’s it, sir ; that ’s it. Well, sir, if you please 1” 

“ You Ve heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven’t you, Old 
Rogers?” 

“ He was a great joker, wasn’t he, sir 1 ” 

“ No, no ; you’re thinking of Sydney Smith, Rogers.” 

“ It may be, sir. I am an ignorant man.” 

“ You are no more ignorant than you ought to be. — 
But it is time you should know him, for he was just one 
of your sort. I will come down some evening and tell 
you about him.” 

I may as well mention here that this led to week- 
evening lectures in the barn, which, with the help of 
Weir the carpenter, was changed into a comfortable 
room, with fixed seats all round it, and plenty of cane- 
chairs besides — for I always disliked forms in the middle 
of a room. The object of these lectures was to make 
the people acquainted with the true heroes of their 
own country — men great in themselves. And the kind 
of choice I made may be seen by those who know about 
both, frbm the fact that, while my first two lectures were 
on Philip Sidney, I did not gi /e one whole lecture e^ en 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


225 


to Walter Raleigh, grand fellow as he was. I wanted 
chiefly to set forth the men that could rule themselves, 
first of all, after a noble fashion. But I have not finished 
these lectures yet, for I never wished to confine them 
to the English heroes ; I am going on still, old man as 
I am — not however without retracing passed ground 
sometimes, for a new generation has come up since I 
came here, and there is a new one behind coming up 
now which I may be honoured to present in its turn to 
some of this grand company — this cloud of witnesses to 
the truth in our own and other lands, some of whom 
subdued kingdoms, and others were tortured to death, 
for the same cause and with the same result. 

“ Meantime,” I went on, “ I only want to tell you 
one little thing he says in a letter to a younger brother 
whom he wanted to turn out as fine a fellow as possible. 
It is about horses, or rather, riding — for Sir Philip was 
the best horseman in Europe in his day, as, indeed, all 
things taken together, he seems to have really been the 
most accomplished man generally of his time in the 
world. Writing to this brother he says — ” 

I could not repeat the words exactly to Old Rogers, 
but I think it better to copy them exactly, in writing 
this account of our ta l . : 

** At horsemanship, when you exercise it, read Crison 
Claudio, and a book that is called Za Gloria deF CavallOy 
withal that you may join the thorough v-ontemplation of 
it with the exercise ; and so shall you profit more in a 
month than others in a year.” 

‘‘I think I see what you mean, sir. I had got to 

F 


226 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUIHOOD. 


leam it all without book, as it were, though you know I 
had my old Bible, that my mother gave me, and without 
that I should not have learned it at all/’ 

I only mean it comparatively, you know. You have 
had more of the practice, and I more of the theory. 
But if we had not both had both, we should neither ot 
us have known anything about the matter. I never was 
content without trying at least to understand things ; and 
if they are pracncai things, and you try to practise them 
at the same time as far as you do understand them, there 
is no end to the way in which the one lights up the other. 
I suppose that is how, without your experience, I have 
more to say about such things than you could expect. 
You know besides that a small matter in which a prin- 
ciple is involved will reveal the principle, if attended to, 
just as well as a great one containing the same principle. 
The only difference, and that a most important one, is 
that, though I Ve got my clay and my straw together, 
and they stick pretty well as yet, my brick, after all, is 
not half so well baked as yours, old friend, and it may 
crumble away yet, though I hope not” 

“ I pray God to make both our bricks into stones of 
the New Jerusalem, sir. I think I understand you quite 
well To know about a thing is of no use, except you 
do it Besides, as I found out when I went to sea, you 
never can know a thing till you do do i', though I thought 
I had a tidy fancy about some things beforehand. It ’s 
better not to be quite sure that all your seams are 
caulked, and so to keep a look-out on the bilge-pump : 
isn’t it, sir 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 




During the most of this conversation, we were stand- 
ing by the mill-water, half frozen over. The ice from 
both sides came towards the middle, leaving an empty 
space between, along which the dark water showed 
itself, hurrying away as if in fear of its life from the 
white death of the frost. The wheel stood motionless, 
and the drip from the thatch of the mill over it in 
the sun, had frozen in the shadow into icicles, which 
hung in long spikes from the spokes and the floats, 
making the wheel — soft green and mossy when it revolved 
in the gentle sun-mingled summer-water — look like its 
own gray skeleton now. The sun was getting low, and 
I should want all my time to see my other friends before 
dinner, for I would not willingly offend Mrs Pearson on 
Christmas Day by being late, especially as I guessed 
she was using extraordinary skill to prepare me a more 
than comfortable meal. 

** I must go, Old Rogers,’^ I said ; “ but I will leave 
you something to think about till we meet again. Find 
out why our Lord was so much displeased with the 
disciples, whom He knew to be ignorant men, for not 
knowing what He meant when He warned them against 
the leaven of the Pharisees. I want to know what you 
think about it. You ’ll find the story told both in the 
sixteenth chapter of St Matthew and the eighth of St 
Mark.” 

Well, sir, 1 11 try ; that is, if you will tell me what 
jrou think about it afterwards, so as to put me right, if 
I ’m wrong.*’ 

** Of course I will, if I can find out an explanatioi 


228 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


to satisfy me. But it is not at all clear to me now. In 
fact, I do not see the connecting links of our Lord’s 
logic in the rebuke He gives them.” 

** How am I to find out then, sir — knowing nothing 
of logic at all 1 ” said the old man, his rough worn face 
summered over with his child-like smile. 

“ There are many things which a little learning, while 
it cannot really hide them, may make you less ready to 
see all at once,” I answered, shaking hands with Old 
Rogers, and then springing across the brook with my 
carpet-bag in my hand. 

By the time I had got through the rest of my calls, the 
fogs were rising from the streams and the meadows to 
close in upon my first Christmas Day in my own parish. 
How much happier I was than when I came such a few 
months before ! The only pang I felt that day was as 1 
passed the monsters on the gate leading to Oldcastle 
Hall. Should I be honoured to help only the poor of 
the flock 1 Was I to do nothing for the rich, for whom 
it is, and has been, and doubtless will be so hard to enter 
••nto the kingdom of heaven? And it seemed to me at 
the moment that the world must be made for the poor ; 
they had so much more done for them to enable them to 
inherit it than the rich had. — To these people at the 
Hall, I did not seem acceptable. I might in time do 
something with Judy, but the old lady was still so dread- 
fully repulsive to me that it troubled my conscience to 
feel how I disliked her. Mr Stoddart seemed nothing 
more than a dilettante in religion, as well as in the arts 
and sciences — music always excepted; while for Miss 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


2m 


Oldcastle, I simply did not understand her yet. And 
she was so beautiful! I thought her more beautiful 
every time I saw her. But I never appeared to make 
the least progress towards any real acquaintance with he» 
thoughts and feelings. — It seemed to me, I say, for a 
moment, coming from the houses of the warm-hearted 
poor, as if the rich had not quite fair play, as it were — as 
if they were sent into the world chiefly for the sake of 
the cultivation of the virtues of the poor, and without 
much chance for the cultivation of their own. I knew 
better than this you know, my reader ; but the thought 
came, as thoughts will come sometimes. It vanished the 
moment I sought to lay hands upon it, as if it knew quite 
well it had no business there. But certainly I did be- 
lieve that it was more like the truth to say the world was 
made for the poor than to say that it was made for the 
rich. And therefore I longed the more to do something 
for these whom I considered the rich of my flock ; for it 
was dreadful to think of their being poor inside instead 
of outside. 

Perhaps my reader will say, and say with justice, that 
I ought to have been as anxious about poor Farmer 
Brownrigg as about the beautiful lady. But the farmer 
had given me good reason to hope some progress in him 
after the way he had given in about Jane Rogers. Posi- 
tively I had caught his eye during the sermon that very 
day. And, besides — but I will not be a hypocrite ; and 
seeing I did not certainly take the same interest in Mr 
Brownrigg, I will at least be honest and confess it. As 
far as regards the discharge of my duties, I trust I should 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


have behaved impartially had the necessity for any choice 
arisen. But my feelings were not quite under my own 
control And we are nowhere told to love everybod} 
alike, only to love every one who comes within our reach 
as ourselves. 

I wonder whether my old friend Dr Duncan was right 
He had served on shore in Egypt under General Aber- 
crombie, and had of course, after the fighting was over 
on each of the several occasions — the French being 
always repulsed — exercised his office amongst the 
wounded left on the field of battle. — ** I do not know,” 
he said, “ whether I did right or not ; but I always took 
the man I came to first — French or English.” — I only 
know that my heart did not wait for the opinion of my 
head on the matter. I loved the old man the more that 
he did as he did. But as a question of casuistry, 1 am 
doubtful about its answer. 

This digression is, I fear, unpardonable. 

I made Mrs Pearson sit down with me to dinner, for 
Christmas Day was not one to dine alone upon. And I 
have ever since had my servants to dine with me on 
Christmas Day. 

Then I went out again, and made another round of 
visits, coming in for a glass of wine at one table^ an 
orange at another, and a hot chestnut at a third. Thos-.: 
whom I could not see that day, I saw on the following 
days between it and the new year. And so ended my 
Christmas holiday with my people. 

But there it one little incident which I ought to relate 


SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 


* 3 * 


before I close this chapter, and which I am ashamed ol 
having so nearly forgotten. 

When we had finished our dinner, and I was sitting 
alone drinking a class of claret before going out again, 
Mrs Pearson came in and told me that little Gerard 
Weir wanted to see me. I asked her to show him in ; 
and the little fellow entered, looking very shy, and cling- 
ing first to the door and then to the wall. 

“ Come, my dear boy,” I said, “ and sit down by me." 

He came directly and stood before me. 

“ Would you like a little wine and water?” I said; for 
unhappily there was no dessert, Mrs Pearson knowing 
that I never eat such things. 

“No, thank you, sir; I never tasted wine.” 

I did not press him to take it 

“ Please, sir,” he went on after a pause, putting hit 
nand in his pocket, “ mother gave me some goodies, and 
I kept them till I saw you come back, and here they arc, 
sir." 

Does any reader doubt what I did or said upon this ? 

I said, “ Thank you, my darling,” and I ate them up 
every one of them, that he might see me eat them before 
he left the house. And the dear child went off radiant 

If anybody cannot understand why I did so, I beg 
him to consider the matter. If then he cannot come to 
a conclusion concerning it, I doubt if any explanation of 
mine would greatly subserve his enlightenment. Mean- 
time, I am forcibly restraining myself from yielding to 
me temptation to set forth my reasons, which would 


§33 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


suit in a half-hours sermon on the Jewish dispensation, 
including the burnt offering, and the wave and heave 
offerings, with an application to the ignorant nurses and 
mothers of English babies, who do the best they can to 
make original sin an actual fact by training children down 
in the way they should not fa 


CHAPTER XIL 


THE AVENUE. 



ilT Will not appear strange that I should lingei 
so long upon the first few months of my 
association with a people who, now that I 
am an old man, look to me like my own 
children. For those who were then older than myself 
are now *‘old dwellers in those high countries” where 
there is no age, only wisdom ; and I shall soon go to 
them. How glad I shall be to see my Old Rogers again, 
who, as he taught me upon earth, will teach me yet 
more, I thank my God, in heaven ! But I must not let 
the reverie which always gathers about the feather-end 
of my pen the moment I take it up to write these re- 
collections, interfere with the work before me. 

After this Christmas-tide, I found myself in closer 
relationship to my parishioners. No doubt I was always 
in danger of giving unknown offence to those who were 
ready to fancy that I neglected them, and did not dia* 


*34 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


tribute my favours equally. But as I never took offence^ 
the offence I gave was easily got rid of. A clergyman, 
of all men, should be slow to take offence, for if he does, 
he will never be free or strong to reprove sin. And il 
must sometimes be his duty to speak severely to those, 
especially the good, who are turning their faces the 
wrong way. It is of little use to reprove the sinner, but 
it is worth while sometimes to reprove those who have a 
regard for righteousness, however imperfect they may be. 
‘‘ Reprove not a scorner, lest he hate thee ; rebuke a 
wise man, and he will love thee.” 

But I took great care about interfering; though 1 
would interfere upon request — not always, however, 
upon the side whence the request came, and more 
seldom still upon either side. The clergyman must 
never be a partisan. When our Lord was requested 
to act as umpire between two brothers. He refused. 
But He spoke and said, “Take heed, and beware of 
covetousness.” Now, though the best of men is un- 
worthy to loose the latchet of His shoe, yet the servant 
must be as his Master. Ah me ! while I write it, I 
remember that the sinful woman might yet do as she 
would with His sacred feet. I bethink me; Desert 
may not touch His shoe-tie : Love may kiss His feet. 

I visited, of course, at the Hall, as at the farmhouses 
in the country, and the cottages in the village. I did 
not come to like Mrs Oldcastle better. And there was 
one woman in the house whom I disliked still more i 
that Sarah whom Judy had called in my hearing a white 
wolf. Her face was yet whiter than that of her mistress, 


THE AVENUE. 


»3l 


only it was not smooth like hers ; for its whiteness came 
apparently from the small-pox, which had so thickened 
the skin that no blood, if she had any, could shine 
through. I seldom saw her — only, indeed, caught a 
glimpse of her now and then as I passed through the 
house. 

Nor did I make much progress with Mr Stoddart, 
He had always something friendly to say, and often 
iome theosophical theory to bring forward, which, I 
must add, never seemed to me to mean, or, at least, to 
reveal, anything. He was a great reader of mystical 
books, and yet the man’s nature seemed cold. It was 
sunshiny, but not sunny. His intellect was rather a 
lambent flame than a genial warmth. He could make 
things, but he could not grow anything. A.nd when I 
came to see that he had had more than any one else to 
do with the education of Miss Oldcastle, I understood 
her a little better, and saw that her so-called e-ducation 
had been in a great measure re-pression — of a negative 
sort, no doubt, but not therefore the less mischievous. 
For to teach speculation instead of devotion, mysticism 
instead of love, word instead of deed, is surely ruinously 
repressive to the nature that is meant for sunbright 
activity both of heart and hand. My chief perplexity 
continued to be how he could play the organ as he did. 

My reader will think that I am always coming round 
to Miss Oldcastle ; but if he does, I cannot help it I 
began, I say, to understand her a little better. She 
seemed to me always like one walking in a “ watery 
sunbeam,” without knowing that it was but the wintiy 


t36 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


pledge of a summer sun at hand. She took it, or was 
trying to take it, for the sunlight ; trying to make herself 
feel all the glory people said was in the light, instead of 
making haste towards the perfect day. I found after- 
wards that several things had combined to bring about 
this condition ; and I know she will forgive me, should 
I, for the sake of others, endeavour to make it under* 
stood by and by. 

I have not much more to tell my readers about this 
winter. As out of a whole changeful season only one 
day, or, it may be, but one moment in which the time 
seemed to burst into its own blossom, will cling to the 
memory; so of the various interviews with my friends, 
and the whole flow of the current of my life, during that 
winter, nothing more of nature or human nature occurs 
to me worth recording. I will pass on to the summer 
season as rapidly as I may, though the early spring will 
detain me with the relation of just a single incident. 

I was on my way to the Hall to see Mr Stoddart I 
wanted to ask him whether something could not be done 
beyond his exquisite playing to rouse the sense of music 
in my people. I believed that nothing helps you so 
much to feel as the taking of what share may, from the 
nature of the thing, be possible to you ; because, for one 
reason, in order to feel, it is necessary that the mind 
should rest upon the matter, whatever it is. The poorest 
success, provided the attempt has been genuine, will 
enable one to enter into any art ten times better than 
before. Now I had, I confess, little hope of moving 
Mr Stoddart in the matter ; but if I should succeed, I 


THE AVENUE. 




thought it would do himself more good to mingle with 
his humble fellows in the attempt to do them a tnfle oi 
good, than the opening of any number of intellectual 
windows towards the circumambient truth. 

It was just beginning to grow dusk. The wind was 
blustering in gusts among the trees, swaying them sud- 
denly and fiercely like a keen passion, now sweeping 
them all one way as if the multitude of tops would break 
loose and rush away like a wild river, and now subsiding 
as suddenly, and allowing them to recover themselves 
and stand upright, with tones and motions of indignant 
expostulation. There was just one cold bar of light in 
the west, and the east was one gray mass, while over- 
head the stars were twinkling. The grass and all the 
ground about the trees were very wet The time seemed 
more dreary somehow than the winter. Rigour was 
past, and tenderness had not come. For the wind was 
cold without being keen, and bursting from the trees 
every now and then with a roar as of a sea breaking on 
distant sands, whirled about me as if it wanted me to go 
and join in its fierce play. 

Suddenly I saw, to my amazement, in a walk that 
ran alongside of the avenue. Miss Oldcastle struggling 
against the wind, which blew straight down the path 
upon her. The cause of my amazement was twofold 
First, I had supposed her with her mother in London, 
whither their journeys had been not infrequent since 
Christmas-tide; and next — why should she be fghting 
with the wind, so far from the house, with only a shawl 
drawn over her head ? 


338 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


The reader may wonder how I should know her in 
this attire in the dusk, and where there was not the 
smallest probability of finding her. Suffice it to say that 
I did recognise her at once ; and passing between two 
great tree-trunks, and through an opening in some under- 
wood, was by her side in a moment. But the noise of 
the wind had prevented her from hearing my approach, 
and when I uttered her name, she started violently, 
and, turning, drew herself up very haughtily, in part, 
I presume, to hide her tremor. — She was always a little 
haughty with me, I must acknowledge. Could there have 
been anything in my address, however unconscious of 
it I was, that made her fear I was ready to become in- 
trusive 1 Or might it not be that, hearing of my footing 
with my parishioners generally, she was prepared to 
resent any assumption of clerical familiarity with her; 
and so, in my behaviour, any poor innocent “ bush was 
supposed a bear.” For I need not tell my reader that 
nothing was farther from my intention, even with the 
lowliest of my flock, than to presume upon my position 
as clergyman. I think they all gave me the relation I 
occupied towards them personally. — But I had never 
seen her look so haughty as now. If I had been watch- 
ing her very thoughts she could hardly have looked more 
indignant 

« I beg your pardon,” I said, distressed ; “ I have 
startled you dreadfully.” 

<< Not in the least,” she replied, but without moving, 
and still with a cirve in her form like the neck of a 
frayed horse. 


THE AVENUE. 


*39 


I thought it better to leave apology, which was evi 
Gently disagreeable to her, and speak of indifferent 
things. 

“ I was on my way to call on Mr Stoddart,’' I said. 

“ You will find him at home, I believe." 

** I fancied you and Mrs Oldcastle in London.” 

“ We returned yesterday.” 

Still she stood as before. I made a movement in the 
direction of the house. She seemed as if she would 
walk in the opposite direction. 

May I not walk with you to the house 1 ” 

** I am not going in just yet.” 

‘‘ Are you protected enough for sucn a night 1 ** 

** I enjoy the wind.” 

I bowed and walked on ; for what else could I do 1 

I cannot say that I enjoyed leaving her behind me in 
the gathering dark, the wind blowing her about with no 
more reverence than if she had been a bush of privet. 
Nor was it with a light heart that I bore her repulse as 
I slowly climbed the hill to the house. However, a 
little personal mortification is wholesome — though I 
cannot say either that I derived much consolation from 
the reflection. 

Sarah opened the glass door, her black, glossy, rest- 
less eyes looking out of her white face from under gray 
eyebrows. I knew at once by her look beyond me that 
s’'e had expected to find me accompanied by her young 
mistress. I did not volunteer any information, as my 
reader may suppose. 

I found, as I had fea«ed, that, although Mr Stoddart 


ANNALS OF A QUIBT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


MO 


seemed to listen with some interest to what I said, I 
:ould not bring him to the point of making any prac- 
tical suggestion, or of responding to one made by me ; 
and I left him with the conviction that he would do 
nothing to help me. Yet during the whole of our inter- 
view he had not opposed a single word I said. He was 
like clay too much softened with water to keep the form 
into which it has been modelled. He would take somt 
kind of form easily, and lose it yet more easily. I did 
not show all my dissatisfaction, however, for that would 
only have estranged us ; and it is not required, nay, it 
may be wrong, to show all you feel or think : what is 
required of us is, not to show what we do not feel or 
think ; for that is to be false. 

I left the house in a gloomy mood. I know I ought 
to have looked up to God and said : “ These things do 
not reach to Thee, my Father. Thou art ever the same ; 
and I rise above my small as well as my great troubles 
by remembering Thy peace, and Thy unchangeable 
Godhood to me and all Thy creatures.” But I did not 
come to myself all at once. The thought of God had 
not come, though it was pretty sure to come before I 
got home. I was brooding over the littleness of all I 
could do; and feeling that sickness which sometimes 
will overtake a man in the midst of the work he likes 
best, when the unpleasant parts of it crowd upon him, 
and his own efforts, especially those made from the will 
without sustaining impulse, come back upon him with a 
feeling of unreality, decay, and bitterness, as if he had 
been unnatural and untrue, and putting himself in false 


THE AVENUE. 


241 


relations by false efforts for good. I know this all came 
from selfishness — thinking about myself instead of about 
God and my neighbour. But so it was. — And so I was 
walking down the avenue, where it was now very dark, 
with my head bent to the ground, when I in my turn 
started at the sound of a woman’s voice, and looking 
up, saw by the starlight the dim form of Miss Oldcastle 
standing before me. 

She spoke first 

‘‘ Mr Walton, I was very rude to you. I beg your 
pardon.” 

“ Indeed, I did not think so. I only thought what a 
blundering awkward fellow I was to startle you as I did. 
You have to forgive me.” 

** I fancy” — ^and here I know she smiled, though how 
I know I do not know — “ I fancy I have made that 
even,” she said, pleasantly; ‘‘for you must confess I 
startled you now.” 

“You did; but it was in a very different way. I 
annoyed you with my rudeness. You only scattered a 
swarm of bats that kept flapping their skinny wings in 
my face.” 

“What do you meani There are no bats at this 
time of the year.” 

“ Not outside. In ‘ winter and rough weather * they 
creep inside, you know.” 

“ Ah ! I ought to understand you. But I did not 
think you were ever like that I thought you were too 
good.” 

I wish I were. I hope to be some day. I am not 

Q 


24S ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


yet, anyhow. And I thank you for driving the bats 
away in the meantime.” 

“ You make me the more ashamed of myself to think 
that perhaps my rudeness had a share in bringing them 
— ^Yours is no doubt thankless labour sometimes.” 

She seemed to make the last remark just to prevent 
the conversation from returning to her as its subject. 
And now all the bright portions of my work came up 
before me. 

“You are quite mistaken in that, Miss Oldcastle. 
On the contrary, the thanks I get are far more than 
commensurate with the labour. Of course one meets 
with a disappointment sometimes, but that is only when 
they don’t know what you mean. And how should they 
know what you mean till they are different themselves ] 
— ^You remember what Wordsworth says on this very 
subject in his poem of Simon Lee 9 ” — 

“ I do not know anything of Wordsworth.* 

** * I ’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning , 

Alas I the gratitude of men 

Hath oftener left me mourning.*** 

“ I do not quite see what he means.” 

“May I recommend you to think about iti You 
will be sure to find it out for yourself, and that will be 
ten times more satisfactory than if I were to explain it to 
you. And, besides, you will never forget it, if you da** 

“ Will you repeat the lines again i ** 

I did so. 

All this time the wind had been still Now it rose 


THE AVENUE. 


*43 


with a slow gush in the trees. Was it fancy ? Or, as 
the wind moved the shrubbery, did I see a white face ? 
And could it be the White Wolf, as Judy called herl 

I spoke aloud : 

“ But it is cruel to keep you standing here in such a 
night. You must be a real lover of nature to walk in 
the dark wind.^* 

“ I like it. Good night.” 

So we parted. I gazed into the darkness after her, 
though she disappeared at the distance of a yard or 
two ; and would have stood longer had I not still sus- 
pected the proximity of Judy’s Wolf, which made me turn 
and go home, regardless now of Mr Stoddart’s doughmess. 

I met Miss Oldcastle several times before the summer, 
but her old manner remained, or rather had returned, for 
there had been nothing of it in the tone of her voice in 
that interview, if interview it could be called wher« 
neither could see more than the other’s outline* 


CHAPTER Xnt 


YOUNG WEIR. 

Y slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green 
came instead of white; rainbows instead o/ 
icicles. The grounds about the Hall seemed 
the incarnation of a summer which had taken 
years to ripen to its perfection. The very grass seemed 
to have aged into perfect youth in that ‘‘ haunt of ancient 
peace for surely nowhere else was such thick, delicate- 
bladed, delicate-coloured grass to be seen. Gnarled old 
trees of may stood like altars of smoking perfume, or 
each like one million-petalled flower of upheaved white- 
ness — or of tender rosiness, as if the snow which had 
coverea it in winter had sunk in and gathered warmth 
from the life of the tree, and now crept out again to 
adorn the summer. The long loops of the laburnum 
hung heavy with gold towards the sod below ; and the 
air was full of the fragrance of the young leaves of the 
Umer^ Dotti in the valley below, the daisies shone in 



YOUNG WEIR. 


245 


all the meadows, varied with the buttercup and the 
celandine ; while in damp places grew large pimpernels, 
and along the sides of the river, the meadow-sweet stood 
amongst the reeds at the very edge of the water, breath- 
ing out the odours of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pol- 
lards were each one mass of undivided green. The mill 
wheel had regained its knotty look, with its moss and its 
dip and drip, as it pelded to the slow water, which would 
have let it alone, but that there was no other way out of 
the land to the sea. 

I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, 
with a book in my hand, at which I often did not look 
the whole day, and which yet I liked to have with me 
And I seemed somehow to come back with most upon 
those days in which I did not read. In this manner I 
prepared almost all my sermons that summer. But, 
although I prepared them thus in the open country, I 
had another custom, which perhaps may appear strange 
to some, before I preached them. This was, to spend 
die Saturday evening, not in my study, but in the church. 
This custom of mine was known to the sexton and his 
wife, and the church was always clean and ready for me 
aftei about mid-day, so that I could be alone there as 
soon as I pleased. It would take more space than my 
limits will afford to explain thoroughly why I liked to do 
this. But I will venture to attempt a partial explanation 
in a few words. 

This fine old church in which I was honoured to lead 
the prayers of my people, was not the expression of the 
religious feeling of my time. There was a gloom about 


246 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


it — a sacred gloom, I know, and I loved it; but such 
gloom as was not in my feeling when I talked to my 
flock. I honoured the place; I rejoiced in its history ; 
I delighted to think that even by the temples made with 
hands outlasting these bodies of ours, we were in a sense 
united to those who in them had before us lifted up holy 
hands without wrath or doubting ; and with many more 
who, like us, had lifted up at least prayerful hands with- 
out hatred or despair. The place soothed me, tuned me 
to a solemn mood — one of self-denial, and gentle glad- 
ness in all sober things. But, had I been an architect, 
and had I had to build a church — I do not in the least 
know how I should have built it — I am certain it 
would have been very different from this. Else I 
should be a mere imitator, like all the church-architects 
I know anything about in the present day. For I always 
found the open air the most genial influence upon me 
for the production of religious feeling and thought I 
had been led to try whether it might not be so with me 
by the fact that our Lord seemed so much to delight in 
the open air, and late in the day as well as early in the 
morning would climb the mountain to be alone with His 
Father. I found that it helped to give a reality to every- 
thing that I thought about, if I only contemplated it 
under the high untroubled blue, with the lowly greai be- 
neath my feet, and the wind blowing on me to remind 
me of the Spirit that once moved on the face of the 
waters, bringing order out of disorder and light out of 
darkness, and was now seeking every day a fuller entrance 


TOUNG WEIl. 


247 


into my heart, that there He might work the one will ol 
the Father in heaven. 

My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not 
so much a discord, as a lack of harmony between the 
surroundings wherein my thoughts took form, or, to use 
a homelier phrase, my sermon was studied, and the sur- 
roundings wherein I had to put these forms into the 
garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore 
sought to bridge over this difference (if I understood 
music, I am sure I could find ai expression exactly 
fitted to my meaning), — to find an easy passage between 
the open-air mood and the church mood, so as to be 
able to bring into the church as much of the fresh air, 
and the tree-music, and the colour-harmony, and the 
gladness over all, as might be possible ; and, in order 
to this, I thought all my sermon over again in the after- 
noon sun as it shone slantingly through the stained 
window over Lord Eagleye’s tomb, and in the failing 
light thereafter and the gathering dusk of the twilight, 
pacing up and down the solemn old place, hanging my 
thoughts here on a crocket, there on a corbel ; now on 
the gable-point over which Weir’s face would gaze next 
morning, and now on the aspiring peaks of the organ. 
I thus made the place a cell of thought and prayer. 
And when the next day came, I found the forms around 
me so interwoven with the forms of my thought, that I 
felt almost like one of the old monks who had built the 
place, so little did I find any check to my thought or 
utterance from its unfitness for the expression of my 


t 48 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


individual modernism. But not one atom the more did 
I incline to the evil fancy that God was more in the past 
than in the present ; that He is more within the walls ol 
the church, than in the unwalled sky and earth ; or seek 
to turn backwards one step from a living Now to an 
entombed and consecrated Past. 

One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. 
I had not walked far, for I had sat in the various places 
longer than I had walked, my path lying through fields 
and copses, crossing a country road only now and then. 
I had my Greek Testament with me, and I read when 
I sat, and thought when I walked. I remember well 
enough that I was going to preach about the cloud of 
witnesses, and explain to my people that this did not 
mean persons looking at, witnessing our behaviour — not 
so could any addition be made to the awfulness of the 
fact that tile eye of God was upon us — but witnesses to 
the truth, people who did what God wanted them to 
do, come of it what might, whether a crown or a rack, 
scoffs or applause; to behold whose witnessing might 
well rouse all that was human and divine in us to chose 
our part with them and their Lord. — When I came 
home, I had an early dinner, and then betook myself to 
my Saturday's resort. — I had never had a room laige 
enough to satisfy me before. Now my study was to my 
mind. 

All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn 
of the day, when the colours are richest and the shadows 
long and lengthening, I paced my solemn old-thoughted 
rhuich. Sometimes I went up into the pulpit and sat 


TOUNG WEIE. 


SH9 


there, looking on the ancient walls which hao grown jp 
undei men’s hands that men might be helped to pray by 
the visible symbol of unity which the walls gave, and 
that the voice of the Spirit of God might be heard ex- 
horting men to forsake the evil and choose the good. 
And I thought how many witnesses to the truth had 
knelt in those ancient pews. For as the great church is 
made up of numberless communities, so is the great 
shining orb of witness-bearers made up of millions of 
lesser orbs. All men and women of true heart bear 
individual testimony to the truth of God, saying, “ I 
have trusted and found Him faithful.” And the feeble 
light of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and 
with a loveliness of its own. “ So, O Lord,” I said, 
“ let my light shine before men.” And I felt no fear of 
vanity in such a prayer, for I knew that the glory to 
come of it is to God only — “ that men may glorify their 
Father in heaven.” And I knew that when we seek 
gloiy for ourselves, the light goes out, and the Horror 
that dwells in darkness breathes cold upon our spirits. 
And I remember that just as I thought thus, my eye was 
caught first by a yellow light that gilded the apex of the 
font-oaver, which had been wrought like a flame or a 
bursting blossom : it was so old and worn, I never could 
tell which; and then by a red light all over a white 
marble tablet in the wall — the red of life on the cold 
hue of the grave. And this red light did not come from 
any work of man’s device, but from the great window ol 
the west, which little Gerard Weir wanted to help God 
to paint. J must have been in a happy mood that 


§50 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Saturday afternoon, for everything pleased me and made 
me happier ; and all the church-forms about me blended 
and harmonised graciously with the throne and foot- 
stool of God which I saw through the windows. And J 
lingered on till the night had come ; till the church only 
gloomed about me, and had no shine ; and then I found 
my spirit burning up the clearer, as a lamp which has 
been flaming all the day with light unseen becomes a 
glory in the room when the sun is gone down. 

At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I 
lingered for a few moments in the vestry, thinking what 
hymns would harmonize best with the things I wanted 
to make my people think about It was now almost 
quite dark out of doors — at least as dark as it would 
be. 

Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a 
moan and a sob. I sat upright in my chair and listened. 
But I heard nothing more, and concluded I had de- 
ceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go home 
and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from 
than towards the subject of witness-bearing any more for 
that night, lest I should burn the fuel of it out before I 
came to warm the people with it, and should have to 
blow its embers instead of flashing its light and heat 
upon them in gladness. So I left the church by my 
vestry-door, which I closed behind me, and took my 
way along the path through the clustering group of 
graves. 

Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it 
And there lay something dark upon one of the grassy 


YOUNG WEIl. 


*5* 


mounds. I approached it, but it did not move. 1 
spoke. 

“ Can I be of any use to you 1” I said. 

“ No,” returned an almost inaudible voice. 

Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew 
that no one had been buried there veiy lately, and if the 
grief were for the loss of the dead, it was more than 
probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent misfortune. 

I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, 

“ Come with me, and let us see what can be done for 
you.” 

I then saw that it was a youth — perhaps scarcely more 
than a boy. And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his 
grief could hardly be incurable. He returned no an- 
swer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be 
led away. I took him the shortest road to my house 
through the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made 
him sit down in my easy-chair, and rang for lights and 
wine; for the dew had been falling heavily, and his 
clothes were quite dank. But when the wine came, he 
refused to take any. 

“ But you want it,” I said. 

** No, sir, I don’t, indeed.” 

** Take some for my sake, then.* 

" I would rather not, sir.” 

« Whyl” 

“ I promised my father a year ago, when I left home, 
(hat I would not drink anything stronger than water. 
And I can’t break my promise now.” 

“ Where is your home 1” 


9$2 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


" In the village, sir.** 

** That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, 
was itr* 

“ No, sir. It was my mother*s.** 

Then your father is still alive 1 ** 

“ Yes, sir. You know him very well — Thomas Weir." 

“ Ah ! He told me he had a son in London. Are 
you that son ? ’* 

“Yes, sir,** answered the youth, swallowing a rising 
sob. 

“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good 
friend of mine, and would tell you you might trust me.” 

“ I don*t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any 
more than my father.” 

By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and 
his countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently 
not full grown. His dress was very decent. His face 
was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his father. 
He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as 
I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his 
expression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found 
him very attractive, and was therefore the more em- 
boldened to press for the knowledge of his story. 

“ I cannot promise to believe whatever you say ; but 
almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you 
too much already to be in great danger of doubting you , 
for you know the truth has a force of its own.” 

“ I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “ But if 
my father would not believe me, how can I expect you 
to do so, sir?” 


YOUNG WEIL 


*53 


Your father may have been too much troubled by 
your story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit 
like your father to be unfair.” 

‘‘ No, sir. And so much the less chance of your 
believing me.'’ 

Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his 
favour. There was a certain refinement in it, a quality 
of dialogue which indicated thought, as I judged ; and I 
became more and more certain that, whatever I might 
have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the 
truth. 

Come, try me,’' I said. 

I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.” 

“ Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do 
to-night, and you may take what time you please. But 
I will ring for tea first; for I dare say you have not 
made any promise about that” 

A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently 
beginning to feel a little more comfortable. 

** When did you arrive from London ? ” I asked. 

“ About two hours ago, I suppose.” 

Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and 
ham, and plenty of toast We are both hungry.” 

Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and 
departed to do her duty. 

Wlien she returned with the tray, I saw by the uncon- 
sciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables, 
that he had had nothing for some time ; and so, even 
after we were left alone, I would not let him say a word 
till he had made a good meal It was delightful to sc« 


254 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s 
hunger ; and indeed it has always been to me a marvel 
how the feelings and the appetites affect each other. I 
have known grief actually make people, and not sensual 
people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had 
better not offer him any more. 

After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the 
candles out ; and the moon, which had risen, nearly full, 
while we were at tea, shone into the room. I had 
thought that he might possibly find it easier to tell his 
story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame 
in the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce 
him to the despair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he 
could contemplate his deed, but not his deed and him- 
self together, he exclaimed, 

“ To know my deed, 'twere best not know mysel£** 

So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told 
his tale. The moon lighted up his pale face as he told 
it, and gave rather a wild expression to his eyes, eager 
to find faith in me. — I have not much of the dramatic 
in me, I know ; and I am rather a flat teller of stories 
on that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is 
no necessity for it, attempt to give the tale in his own 
words. But, indeed, when I think of it, they did not 
diffei so much from the form of my own, for he had, I 
presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I found 
afterwards, a reader of the best books that came in his 
way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead. 

He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs 


YOUNG WEIR. 


*55 


— " ■ & Co., large silk-mercers, linen-drapers, &c., &c., 
in London; for all the trades are mingled now. His 
Jv^ork at first was to accompany one of the carts which 
delivered the purchases of the day ; but, I presume be- 
cause he showed himself to be a smart lad, they took 
nim at length into the shop to wait behind the counter. 
This he did not like so much, but, as it was considered a 
rise in life, made no objection to the change. 

He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon 
learned all the marks on the goods intended to be un- 
derstood by the shopmen, and within a few months 
believed that he was found generally useful He had as 
yet had no distinct department allotted to him, but was 
moved from place to place, according as the local pres- 
sure of business might demand. 

“ I confess,” he said, “ that I was not always satisfied 
with what was going on about me. I mean I could not 
help doubting if everything was done on the square, as 
they say. But nothing came plainly in my way, and so 
I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took care 
to be straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the 
prices marked for the sale of the goods, I had nothing to 
do with anything else. But one day, while I was show- 
ing a lady some handkerchiefs which were marked as 
mouchoirs de Paris — I don^t know if I pronounce it right, 
sir— she said she did not believe they were French cam- 
bric; and I, knowing nothing about it, said nothing. 
But, happening to look up while we both stood silent, 
the lady examining the handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing 
till she should have made up her mind, I caaght sight of 


ZS6 ANNALS OP A QUILT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


the eyes of the shop-walker, as they call the man who 
shows customers where to go for what they want, and 
sees that they are attended to. He is a fat man, dressed 
in black, with a great gold chain, which .hey say in the 
shop is only copper gilt. But that doesn’t matter, only 
it would be the liker himself. He was standing staring 
at me. I could not tell what to make of it ; but from 
that day I often caught him watching me, as if I had 
been a customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only 
thought he was very disagreeable, and tried to forget 
him. 

‘‘ One day — the day before yesterday — two ladies, an 
old lady and a young one, came into the shop, and 
wanted to look at some shawls. It was dinner-time, and 
most of the men were in the house at their dinner. The 
shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe, 
though I did not see him, stood behind a pillar to watch 
me, as he had been in the way of doing more openly. I 
thought I had seen the ladies before, and though I could 
not then tell where, I am now almost sure they were Mrs 
and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. They wanted to buy 
a cashmere for the young lady. I showed them some. 
They wanted better. I brought the best we had, inquir- 
ing, that I might make no mistake. They asked the 
price. I told them. They said they were not good 
enough, and wanted to see some more. I told them they 
were the best we had. They looked at them again ; said 
they were sorry, but the shawls were not good enough, 
and left the shop without buying anything. I proceeded 
to take the shawls up-stairs again, and, as I went, passed 


YOUNG WEIR. 


*53 


the shop walker, whom I had not observed while I was 
attending to the ladies. ^You'xo. for no good, young 
man ! ’ he said with a nasty sneer. ‘ What do you mean 
by that, Mr B.Vl asked, for his sneer made me angry. 
‘ You ’ll know before to-morrow,* he answered, and walked 
away. That same evening, as we were shutting up shop, 
I was sent for to the principal’s room. The moment T 
entered, he said, * You won’t suit us, young man, I find 
You had better pack up your box to-night, and be off to 
morrow. There ’s your quarter’s salary.’ ‘ What have J 
done?’ I asked in astonishment, and yet with a vague 
suspicion of the matter. ‘ It ’s not what you ’ve done, 
but what you don’t do,’ he answered. ‘ Do you think we 
can afford to keep you here and pay you wages to send 
people away from the shop without buying ? If you do, 
you ’re mistaken, that ’s all. You may go.’ ‘ But what 

could I do?’ I said. ‘I suppose that spy, B ,’ — 1 

believe I said so, sir. * Now, now, young man, none of 

your sauce !* said Mr . ‘ Honest people don’t think 

about spies.’ ‘ I thought it was for honesty you were 

getting rid of me,’ I said. Mr rose to his feet, his 

lips white, and pointed to the door. ‘ Take your money 
and be off. And mind you don’t refer to me for a char- 
acter. After such impudence I couldn’t in conscience 
give you one.* Then, calming down a little when he saw 
I turned to go, ‘ You had better take to your hands again, 
for your head will never keep you. There, be off ! * he 
said, pushing the money towards me, and turning his 
back to me. I could not touch it. * Keep the money, 
Mr I said. ‘ It ’ll make up for what yo i ’ve lost 


t$S ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


by me.’ And I left the room at once without waiting 
for an answer. 

"While I was packing my box, one of my chums 
came in, and I told him all about it. He is rather a 
good fellow that, sir ; but he laughed, and said, ‘ What 
a fool you are, Weir! Vc^u’ll never make your daily 
bread, and you needn’t think it. If you knew what I 
know, you ’d have known better. And it *s very odd it 
was about shawls, too. I ’ll tell you. As you ’re going 

away, you won’t let it out. Mr ’ (that was the 

same who had just turned me away) ‘ was serving some 
ladies himself, for he wasn’t above being in the shop 
like his partner. They wanted the best Indian shawl 
they could get. None of those he showed them were 
good enough, for the ladies really didn’t know one from 
another. They always go by the price you ask, and Mr 

knew that well enough. He had sent me up-stairs 

for the shawls, and as I brought them he said, " These 
are the best imported, madam.” There were three 
ladies ; and one shook her head, and another shook her 
head, and they all shook their heads. And then Mr 

was sorry, I believe you, that he had said they 

were the best. But you won’t catch him in a trap 1 
He ’s too old a fox for that.’ I ’m telling you, sir, what 
Johnson told me. ‘ He looked close down at the 
shawls, as if he were short-sighted, though he could see 
as far as any man. " I beg your pardon, ladies,” said he, 
"you’re right. I am quite wrong. What a stupid 
blunder to make ! And yet they did deceive me. Here, 
Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you bo 


YOUNG WSIl. 


359 


SO stupid ? I will fetch the thing you want myself, 
ladies.” So I went with him. He chose out three or 
four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from the very same 
lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differ 
cntly, and gave them to me to carry down. “ Now, 
ladies, here they are ! ” he said. ‘‘ These are quite a 
different thing, as you w ill see ; and, indeed, they cost 
half as much again.” In five minutes they had bought 
two of them, and paid just half as much more than he 

had asked for them the first time. That’s Mr ! 

and that ’s what you should have done if you had wanted 
to keep your place.’ — But I assure you, sir, I could not 
help being glad to be out of it.” 

“But there is nothing in all this to be miserable 
about,” I said. “ Y ou did your duty.” 

“ It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I 
don’t want to be idle, I ’m sure.” 

" Does your father think you do 1” 

“ I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t speak to me. 
I told my story — as much of it as he would let me, at 
least — but he wouldn’t listen to me. He only said he 
knew better than that. I couldn’t bear it. He always was 
rather hard upon us. I ’m sure if you hadn’t been so 
kind to me, sir, I don’t know what I should have done 
bv this time. I haven’t another friend in the world.’' 

“Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your 
fiiend.” 

“ I don’t know that, sir. I ’m not good enough.” 

“ That ’s quite true. But you would never have don« 
your duty if He had not beer, with yoiL” 


f6o ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** Do you think so, sir % he returned, eagerly. 

“Indeed, I do. Ever^ching good comes from the 
Father of lights. Every one that walks in any glimmering 
of light walks so far in His light. For there is no light 
“Only darkness — comes from below. And man apart 
from God can generate no light. He ’s not meant to be 
separated from God, you see. And only think then what 
light He can give you if you will turn to Him and ask for 
it. What He has given you should make you long for 
more ; for what you have is not enough — ah ! far from it.” 

“ I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at a'J 
m the matter. I didn’t see any other way of doing.” 

“ So much the better. We ought never to feel good. 
We art but unprofitable servants at best. There is no 
merit i.i doing your duty ; only you would have been a 
poor wretched creature not to do as you did. And 
now, instead of making yourself miserable over the 
conseq.iences of it, you ought to bear them like a man, 
with courage and hope, thanking God that He has 
made >ou suffer for righteousness’ sake, and denied you 
the success and the praise of cheating. I will go to 
your father at once, and find out what he is thinking 

about it. For no doubt Mr has written to him 

with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more 
inclined to believe you when he finds that I believe 
you.” 

“ Oh, thank you, sir ! ” cried the lad, and jumped up 
from his seat to go with me. 

“No,” I siivl, “you had better stay where you are. 
I shall be abiu wO speak more freely if you are nol 


YOUNG WEIR. 


261 


present Here is a book to amuse yourself I 

not think I shall be long gone.” 

But I was longer gone than I thought I should be. 

When I reached the carpenter’s house, I found, to mj 
lurprise, that he was still at work. By the light of a 
single tallow candle placed beside him on the bench, 
he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale face, of 
which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have 
expected after what had occurred, was the sole object 
that reflected the light of the candle to my eyes as I 
entered the gloomy place. He looked up, but without 
even greeting me, dropped his face again and went on 
with his work. 

‘‘ What ! ” I said, cheerily, — for I believed that, like 
Gideon’s pitcher, I held dark within me the light that 
would discomfit his Midianites, which consciousness 
may well make the pitcher cheery inside, even while the 
light as yet is all its own — worthless, till it break out 
upon the world, and cease to illuminate only glazed 
pitcher-sides — “ What ! ” I said, “ working so late ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ It is not usual with you, I know.” 

“ It ’s all a humbug ! ” he said fiercely, but coldly not- 
withstanding, as he stood erect from his work, and 
turned his white face full on me — of which, however, 
the eyes drooped — “ It ’s all a humbug ; and I don’t 
mean to be humbugged any more.” 

“ Am I a humbug 1 ” I returned, not quite taken by 
surprise. 

I don’t say that. Don’t make a personal thing o( 


962 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


it, sir. You’re taken in, I believe, like the rest cf us. 
Tell me that a God governs the world ! What have 1 
done, to be used like this 1 ” 

I thought with myself how I could retort for his young 
son : ** What has he done to be used like this ? ” But 
that was not my way, though it might work well enough 
in some hands. Some men are called to be prophets. 
I could only “ stand and wait” 

“ It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance,” I 
said, ‘‘ of what you mean. I know all about it.” 

“ Do you 1 He has been to you, has he ? But you 
don’t know all about it, sir. The impudence of the 
young rascal ! ” 

He paused for a moment 

" A man like me 1 ” he resumed, becoming eloquent 
in his indignation, and, as I thought afterwards, entirely 
justifying what Wordsworth says about the language o\' 
the so-called uneducated, — A man like me, who was 
as proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country 
— ^prouder than any of them would grant me the right 
tobel” 

" Too proud of it, I think — ^not too careful of it,” 1 
said. But I was thankful he did not heed me, for the 
speech would only have irritated him. He went on. 

Me to be treated like this ! One child a . . , ” 

Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he 
tried again. 

“ And the other a . . . • 

Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove 


YOUNG Will. 


a6$ 


his plough fiercely through the groove, splitting off some 
*nches of the wall of it at the end. 

If any one has treated you so,” I said, ** it must be 
the devil, not God.” 

** But if there was a God, he could have prevented it 
all” 

** Mind what I said to you once before : He hasn’t 
done yet. And there is another enemy in His way as 
bad as the devil — I mean our se/z/^s. When people want 
to walk their own way without God, God lets them try 
it. And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God 
won’t let him keep them. As soon as they are ‘ wearied 
in the greatness of their way,* they begin to look about 
for a Saviour. And then they find God ready to pardon, 
ready to help, not breaking the bruised reed — leading 
them to his own self manifest — with whom no man can 
fear any longer, Jesus Christ, the righteous lover of men 
— their elder brother — what we call big brother ^ you know 
— one to help them and take their part against the devil, 
the world, and the flesh, and all the rest of the wicked 
powers. So you see God is tender — ^just like the pro- 
digal son’s father — only with this difference, that God 
has millions of prodigals, and never gets tired of going 
out to meet them and welcome them back, every one as 
if he were the only prodigal son He had ever had. 
Tliere ’s a father indeed ! Have you been such a fathei 
to your son 1 ” 

“ The prodigal didn’t come with a pack of lies. H« 
Icld his fatJier the tmth, bad as it was.” 


a&4 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ How do you know that your son didn^t tell you the 
truth? All the young men that go from home don’t do 
as the prodigal did. Why should you not believe what 
he tells you ? ” 

“ I ’m not one to reckon without my host. Here ’s 
my bill.” 

And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and 
read : — 

“ Sir, — It has become our painful duty to inform you 
that your son has this day been discharged from the em- 
ployment of Messrs and Co., his conduct not being 

such as to justify the confidence hitherto reposed in him. 
It would have been contrary to the interests of the 
establishment to continue him longer behind the coun- 
ter, although we are not prepared to urge anything 
against him beyond tfiC fact that he has shown himsell 
absolutely indifferent to the interests of his employeis. 
We trust that the chief blame will be found to lie with 
certain connexions of a kind easy to be formed in large 
cities, and that the loss of his situation may be punish- 
ment sufficient, if not for justice, yet to make him con- 
sider his ways and be wise. We enclose his quarter’s 
salary, which the young man rejected with insult, and. 
We remain, &c., 

“ and Co.” 

“And,” I exclaimed, “this is what you found youi 
judgment of your own son upon ! You reject him un- 
heard, and take the word of a stranger 1 I don’t wondei 


YOUNG WEIK. 


a6j 


you cannot believe in your Father when you behave so 
to your son. I don’t say your conclusion is false, though 
I don’t believe it. But I do say the grounds you go 
upon are anything but sufficient.” 

“ You don’t mean to tell me that a man of Mr 's 

standing, who has one of the largest shops in London, 
and whose brother is Mayor of Addicehead, would 
slander a poor lad like that !” 

“Oh you mammon-worshipper!” I cried. “Because 
a man has one of the largest shops in London, and his 
brother is Mayor of Addicehead, you take his testimony 
and refuse your son’s 1 I did not know the boy till this 
evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your 
memory all that you have known of him from his child- 
hood, and then ask yourself whether there is not, at 
least, as much probability of his having remained honest 
as of the master of a great London shop being infallible 
in his conclusions — at which conclusions, whatever they 
be, I confess no man can wonder, after seeing how 
readily his father listens to his defamation.” 

I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale 
face of the carpenter was red as fire ; for he had been 
acting contrary to all his own theories of human equality, 
and that in a shameful manner. Still, whether convinced 
or not, he would not give in. He only drove away at 
his work, which he was utterly destroying. His mouth 
was closed so tight, he looked as if he had his jaw 
locked; and his eyes gleamed over the ruined board 
with a light which seemed to me to have more of ol> 
stinacy in it than contrition. 


s66 


ANNALS OF A ^UIXT NBIGHBOURHOOD. 


“Ah, Thomas!” I said, taking up the speech onc6 
more, “ if God had behaved to us as you have behaved 
to your boy — be he innocent, be he guilty — there ’s not 
a man or woman of all our lost race would have re 
turned to Him from the time of Adam till now. I don’t 
wonder that you find it difficult to believe in Him.” 

And with those words I left the shop, determined to 
overwhelm the unbeliever with proof, and put him to 
shame before his own soul, whence, I thought, would 
come even more good to him than to his son. For 
there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with 
the man’s honesty, and the sooner that had a blow 
the better — it might prove a death-blow in the long run 
It was pride that lay at the root of his hardness. He 
visited the daughter’s fault upon the son. His daughter 
had disgraced him ; and he was ready to flash into wrath 
with his son upon any imputation which recalled to him 
the torture he had undergone when his daughter’s dis- 
honour came first to the light. Her he had never for- 
given, and now his pride flung his son out after her 
upon the first suspicion. His imagination had filled up 

all the blanks in the wicked insinuations of Mr . 

He concluded that he had taken money to spend in the 
worst company, and had so disgraced him beyond for- 
giveness. His pride paralysed his love. He thought 
more about himself than about his children. His own 
shame outweighed in his estimation the sadness of their 
guilt It was a less matter that they should be guilty, 
than that he, their father, should be disgraced. 

Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, 1 


YOUNG WEIK. 


267 


found m 3 rself half-way up the avenue of the Hall. 1 
wanted to find out whether young Weir’s fancy that the 
ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom he had 
really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss Old- 
castle, was correct. What a point it would be if it was ! 
I should not then be satisfied except I could prevail on 
Miss Oldcastle to accompany me to Thomas Weir, and 
shame the faithlessness out of him. So eager was I 
after certainty, that it was not till I stood before the 
house that I saw clearly the impropriety of attempting 
anything further that night. One light only was burn- 
ing in the whole front, and that was on the first floor. 

Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go 
down the hill again, I saw a corner of the blind drawn 
aside and a face peeping out — whose, I could not tell. 
This was uncomfortable — for what could be taking me 
there at such a time 1 But I walked steadily away, cer- 
tain I could not escape recognition, and determining to 
refer to this ill-considered visit when I called the next 
day. I would not put it off till Monday, I was re- 
solved. 

I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light 
was to be seen in the village, except one over Catherine 
Weir’s shop. There were not many restless souls in my 
parish — not so many as there ought to be. Yet gladly 
would I see the troubled in peace — not a moment, 
though, before their troubles should have brought them 
where the weary and heavy-laden can alone find rest to 
their souls — finding the Father’s peace in the Son — tho 
Father himself reconciling them to Himself. 


268 AMNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIX 


How still the night was ! My soul hung, as it were, 
suspended in stillness ; for the whole sphere of heaven 
seemed to be about me, the stars above shining as clear 
below in the mirror of the all but motionless water. It 
was a pure type of the “rest that remaineth” — rest, the 
one immovable centre wherein lie all the stores of might, 
whence issue all forces, all influences of making and 
moulding. “ And, indeed,” I said to myself, “ after all 
the noise, uproar, and strife that there is on the earth, 
after all the tempests, earthquakes, and volcanic outbursts, 
there is yet more of peace than of tumult in the world. 
How many nights like this glide away in loveliness, when 
deep sleep hath fallen upon men, and they know neithei 
how still their own repose, nor how beautiful the sleep ot 
nature ! Ah, what must the stillness of the kingdom be ? 
When the heavenly day’s work is done, with what a gentle 
wing will the night come down ! But I bethink me, the 
rest there, as here, will be the presence of God ; and ii 
we have Him with us, the battle-field itself will be — ii 
not quiet, yet as full of peace as this night of stars.” So 
I spoke to myself, and went home. 

I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest, 
but I had plenty of hope. I told him he must stay in 
the house to-morrow ; for it would be better to have the 
reconciliation with his father over before he appeared in 
public. So the next day neither Weir was at church. 

As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once 
more to the Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room — 
a great faded room, in which the prevailing colour was a 
dingy gold, hence called the yellow drawing-room when 


YOUNG WEIK. 


26g 


the house had more than one. It looked down upon the 
lawn, which, although little expense was now laid out on 
any of the ornamental adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept 
very nice. There sat Mrs Oldcastle reading, with her 
face to the house. A little way farther oft', Miss Old- 
castle sat, with a book on her knee, but her gaze fixed 
on the wide-spread landscape before her, of which, how- 
ever, she seemed to be as inobservant as of her book. I 
caught glimpses of Judy flitting hither and thither among 
the trees, never a moment in one place. 

Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone, 
which was not likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped 
from a window which was open, out upon the terrace, 
and thence down the steps to the lawn below. The ser- 
vant had just informed Mrs Oldcastle of my visit when I 
came near. She drew herself up in her chair, and evi- 
dently chose to regard my approach as an intrusion. 

“ I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, 
you will allow me to say.” 

** I am doing Sunday work,” I answered. ** Will you 
kindly tell me whether you were in London on Thursday 
last ? But stay, allow me to ask Miss Oldcastle to join 
us.” 

Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle, 
and begged her to come and listen to something in which 
I wanted her help. She rose courteously though without 
cordiality, and accompanied me to her mother, who sat 
with perfect rigidity, watching us. 

“ Again let me ask,” I said, ** if you were in London 
on Thursday.” 


270 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOUEH »OI>. 


Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came 
from her daughter. 

“ Yes, we were.** 

“ Were you in & Co.*s, in Street ?’* 

But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother 
interposed. 

“ Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, 
one is not accustomed to such cross-questioning — except 
from a lawyer.” 

“ Have patience with me for a moment,” I returned. 
“ I am not going to be mysterious for more than two or 
three questions. Please tell me whether you were in that 
shop or not** 

“ I believe we were,** said the mother. 

“ Yes, certainly,’* said the daughter. 

“ Did you buy anything?” 

“ No. We *’ Miss Oldcastle began. 

‘‘Not a word more,” I exclaimed eagerly. “ Come 
with me at once.** 

“What/ii? you mean, Mr Walton?” said the mother, 
with a sort of cold indignation, while the daughter looked 
surprised, but said nothing. 

“ I beg your pardon for my impetuosity ; but much is 
in your power at this moment The son of one of my 
parishioners has come home in trouble. His father^ 
Thomas Weir *’ 

“ Ah !** said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at 
strife with refinement But I took no notice. 

“ His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks 
you were the ladies in serving whom he got into trouble. 


YOUNG WSIK. 


aji 


I am so confident he tells the truth, that I want Miss 
Oldcastle to be so kind as to accompany me to Weir’s 
house ” 

Really, Mr Walton, I am astonished at your making 
such a request ! ” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, with suitable 
emphasis on every salient syllable, while her white face 
flushed with anger. ‘‘ To ask Miss Oldcastle to accom- 
pany you to the dwelling of the ringleader of all the 
canaille of the neighbourhood !” 

“ It is for the sake of justice,” I interposed. 

‘‘ That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out 
between them. I am sure any trouble that comes of it 
is no more than they all deserve. A low family — men 
and women of them.” 

“ I assure you, I think very differently.” 

** I daresay you do.” 

" But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to 
do with the matter.” 

Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on — 

“ It is a chance which seldom occurs in one’s life. 
Miss Oldcastle — a chance of setting wrong right by a 
word; and as a minister of the gospel of truth and 
love, I beg you to assist me with your presence to that 
end.” 

I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that 
her word given to me would be enough without her pre- 
sence. At the same time, I felt not only that there 
would be a propriety in her taking a personal interest in 
the matter, but that it would do her good, and tend to 
create a favour towards sach other in some of my flock 


VJ2 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIX 


between whom at present there seemed to be nothing ir 
common. 

But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet, 
no longer red — now whiter than her usual whiteness 
with passion. 

‘‘ You dare to persist ! You take advantage of your 
profession to persist in dragging my daughter into a vile 
dispute between mechanics of the lowest class — against 
the positive command of her only parent ! Have you 
no respect for her position in society? — for her sex? 
Mister Walton^ you act in a manner unworthy of your 
cloth.” 

I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self- 
possession as I could muster. And I believe I should 
have borne it all quietly, but for that last word. 

If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it 
is that execrable word cloth — used for the office of a 
clergyman. I have no time to set forth its offence 
now. If my reader cannot feel it, I do not care to 
make him feel it Only I am sorry to say it overcame 
my temper. 

‘‘ Madam,” I said, “ I owe nothing to my tailor. But 
I owe God my whole being, and my neighbour all I 
can do for him. ‘ He that loveth not his brother is a 
murderer/ or murderess, as the case may be.” 

At that word murderess^ her face became livid, and she 
turned away without reply. By this time her daughter 
was half way to the house. She followed her. And 
here was I left to go home, with the full knowledge that, 
partly from trying to gain too much, and partly from 


YOUNG WEIR. 


*73 


losing my temper, I had at best but a mangled and un- 
satisfactory testimony to carry back to Thomas Weir. 
Of course I walked away — round the end of the house 
and down the avenue ; and the farther I went the more 
mortified I grew. It was not merely the shame of losing 
my temper, though that was a shame — and with a woman 
too, merely because she used a common epithet ! — but I 
saw that it must appear very strang* to the carpenter 
that I was not able to give a more explicit account ot 
some sort, what I had learned not being in the least 
decisive in the matter. It only amounted to this, that 
Mrs and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the very 
day on which Weir was dismissed. It proved that so 
much of what he had told me was correct — nothing 
more. And if I tried to better the matter by explaining 
how I had offended them, would it not deepen the very 
hatred I had hoped to overcome 1 In fact, I stood con- 
victed before the tribunal of my own conscience of 
having lost all the certain good of my attempt, in part 
at least from the foolish desire to produce a conviction 
it/" Weir rather than in Weir, which should be triumphant 
after a melodramatic fashion, and — must I confess it? — 
should punish him for not believing in his son when 1 
did ; forgetting in my miserable selfishness that not to 
believe in his son was an unspeakably worse punish- 
ment in itself than any conviction or consequent shame 
brought about by the most overwhelming of stage-effects. 
I assure my reader, I felt humiliated. 

Now I think humiliation is a very different condition 

of mind from humility. Humiliation no man can de< 

s 


<74 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOIL 


sire: it is shame and torture. Humility is the true, 
right condition of humanity — peaceful, divine. And yet 
a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, 
if he finds that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it 
has turned him right round, with his face away from 
pride, whither he was travelling, and towards humility, 
however far away upon the horizon’s verge she may sit 
waiting for him. To me, however, there came a gentle 
and not therefore less effective dissolution of the bonds 
both of pride and humiliation j and before Weir and I 
met, I was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded spirit, 
as I was to work justice for his son. 

I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and down- 
cast eyes, the one of conflict, the other of shame and 
defeat, away from the great house, which seemed to be 
staring after me down the avenue with all its window- 
eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came. At a some- 
what sharp turn, where the avenue changed into a wind- 
ing road, Miss Oldcastle stood waiting for me, the glow 
of haste upon her cheek, and the firmness of resolution 
upon her lips. Once more I was startled by her sudden 
presence, but she did not smile. 

“ Mr Walton, what do you want me to do 1 I would 
not willing refuse, if it is, as you say, really my duty to 
go with you.” 

I cannot be positive about that,” I answered. “ I 
think I put it too strongly. But it would be a consider- 
able advantage, I think, if you would go with me and let 
me ask you a few questions in the presence of Thomas 
Weir. It will have more effect if I am able to tell hina 


YOUNG Will. 


*75 


that I have only learned as yet that you were in the 
shop on that day, and refer him to you for the rest** 

** I will go.’* 

“ A thousand thanks. But how did you manage 

to — r 

Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the ques- 
tion. 

“You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding 
mamma’s objection to my going?*’ 

“ I confess I am. I should not have been surprised 
at Judy’s doing so, now.” 

She was silent for a moment 

“ Do you think obedience to parents is to last for 
ever ? The honour is, of course. But I am surely old 
enough to be right in following my conscience at least.” 

“ You mistake me. That is not the difficulty at all. 
Of course you ought to do what is right against the 
highest authority on earth, which I take to be just the 
parental. What I am surprised at is your courage.” 

“ Not because of its degree, only that it is mine 1” 

And she sighel — She was quite right, and I did not 
know what to answer. But she resumed. 

“ I know I am cowardly. But if I cannot dare, I can 
bear. Is it not strange? — With my mother looking at 
me, I dare not say a word, dare hardly move against her 
will And it is not always a good will. I cannot hon- 
our my mother as I would. But the moment her eyes 
are off me, I can do anything, knowing the consequences 
perfectly, and just as regardless of them ; for, as I teft 
you, Mr Walton, I can endure ; and you do not know 


*76 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


*rhat that might come to mean with my mother. Once 
she kept me shut up in my roomj and sent me only bread 
and water, for a whole week to the very hour. Not that 
I minded that much, but it will let you know a little ol 
my position in my own home. That is why I walked 
away before her. I saw what was coming.” 

And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expres 
sion of pride than I had yet seen in her, revealing to me 
that perhaps I had hitherto quite misunderstood the 
source of her apparent haughtiness. I could not reply 
for indignation. My silence must have been the cause 
of what she said next. 

“ Ah ! you think I have no right to speak so about my 
own mother ! Well ! well ! But indeed I would not have 
done so a month ago.” 

“If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sym- 
pathy is too strong for me. There are mothers and 
mothers. And for a mother not to be a mother is too 
dreadful.” 

She made no reply. I resumed. 

“ It will seem cruel, perhaps ; — certainly in saying it, I 
lay myself open to the rejoinder that talk is so easy; — 
still I shall feel more honest when I have said it : the 
only thing I feel should be altered in your conduct — 
forgive me — is that you should dare your mother. Do 
not think, for it is an unfortunate phrase, that my mean- 
ing is a vulgar one. If it were, I should at least know 
better than to utter it to you. What L mean is, that you 
ought to be able to be and do the same before youf 
mother’s eyes, that you are iind do when she is out of 


YOUNG WEIR. 


*71 


sight I mean that you should look in your mother^s 
eyes, and do what is right^' 

“ I know that — ^know it weW^ (She emphasized the 
words as I do.) ‘‘ But you do not know what a spell she 
casts upon me j how impossible it is to do as you say.” 

“ Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not You will never 
be free till you do so.” 

'‘You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you 
will scarcely be able to believe it now, I do honour her, 
and cannot help feeling that by doing as I do, I avoid 
irreverence, impertinence, rudeness — whichever is the 
right word for what I mean.” 

" I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more 
than propriety of behaviour, even to a parent ; and in- 
deed has in it a deeper reverence, or the germ of it at 
least, than any adherence to the mere code of respect. 
If you once did as I want you to do, you would find that 
in reality you both revered and loved your mother more 
than you do now.” 

“You may be right. But I am certain you speak 
without any real idea of the difficulty.” 

“ That may be. And yet what I say remains just as 
true.” 

“ How could I meet violence^ for instance V* 

“ Impossible !” 

She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some 
minutes. At length she said, 

“ My mothei s self-will amounts to madness, I do be- 
lieve. 1 have yet to learn where she would stop of herself.* 

“ All self-will is madness,” I returned — stupidly enouglw 


278 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


For what is the use of making general remarks when you 
have a terrible concrete before you? “To want one’s 
own way just and only because it is one’s own way is the 
height of madness.” 

“ Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered 
as if it were sense, it makes it no easier to know that it 
is madness.” 

“ Does your uncle give you no help ?” 

“ He ! Poor man ! He is as frightened at her as I 
am. He dares not even go away. He did not know 
what he was coming to when he came to Oldcastle Hall. 
Dear uncle ! I owe him a great deal. But for any help 
of that sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe 
mamma looks upon him as half an idiot. He can do 
anything or everything but help one to live, to be any- 
thing. Oh me ! \ am so tired !” 

And the proud lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not 
incorrectly, burst out crying. 

What was I to do 1 I did not know in the least. What 
I said, I do not even now know. But by this time we 
were at the gate, and as soon as we had passed the 
guardian monstrosities, we found the open road an effec- 
tual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of 
the old house where Weir lived. Miss Oldcastle became 
again a little curious as to what I required of her. 

“ Trust me,” I said. “ There is nothing mysterious 
about it Only I prefer the truth to come out fresh in 
the ears of the man most concerned.” 

" I do trust you,” she answered. And we knocked at 
the house-door. 


YOUNG Will. 


275 


Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle 
in his hand. He looked very much astonished to see 
his lady-visitor. He asked us, politely enough, to walk 
ap-stairs, and ushered us into the large room I have 
already described. There sat the old man, as I had first 
seen him, by the side of the fire. He received us with 
more than politeness — ^with courtesy; and I could not 
help glancing at Miss Oldcastle to see what impression 
this family of ‘Mow, free-thinking republicans” made 
upon her. It was easy to discover that the impression 
was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprised 
at her behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty 
tone was to be heard in her voice ; not a haughty move- 
ment to be seen in her form. She accepted the chair 
offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the fire- 
side, only that she turned towards me, waiting for what 
explanation I might think proper to give. 

Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir 
broke the silence. 

« I Ve been telling Tom, sir, as I Ve told him many 
a time afore, as how he 's a deal too hard with his chil- 
dren.” 

“ Father!” interrupted Thomas, angrily. 

** Have patience a bit, my boy,” persisted the old 
man, turning again towards me. — “ Now, sir, he won't 
even hear young Tom’s side of the story ; and I say that 
boy won't tell him no lie if he 's the same boy he went 
away.” 

“ I tell you, father,” again began Thomas ; but this 
time I interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand. 


28 o 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Thomas/’ I said, “ listen to me. I have heard youi 
son’s side of the story. Because of something he saic 
I went to Miss Oldcastle, and asked her whether sh? 
was in his late master’s shop last Thursday. That is al' 
I have asked her, and all she has told me is that shs 
was. I know no more than you what she is going to 
reply to my questions now, but I have no doubt her 
answers will correspond to your son’s story. 

I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose 
answers amounted to this : — That they had wanted to 
buy a shawl; that they had seen none good enough; 
that they had left the shop without buying anything; 
and that they had been waited upon by a young man, 
who, while perfectly polite and attentive to their wants, 
did not seem to have the ways or manners of a London 
shop- lad. 

I then told them the story as young Tom had related 
it to me, and asked if his sister was not in the house and 
might not go to fetch him. But she was with her sister 
Catherine. 

‘‘ I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I 
ought to go home now,” said Miss Oldcastle. 

** Certainly,” I answered. “ I will take you home at 
once. I am greatly obliged to you for coming.” 

‘‘ Indeed, sir,” said the old man, rising with difficulty, 
" we ’re obliged both to you and the lady more than we 
can tell. To take such a deal of trouble for us ! But 
you see, sir, you ’re one of them as thinks a man *s got 
his duty to do one way or another, whether he be clergy- 
man or carpenter. God bless you. Miss. You’re ol 


YOUNG WXIR. 


j8I 


the right sort, which you’ll excuse an old man, Miss, 
as ’ll never see ye again till ye ’ve got the wings as ye 
ought to have.” 

Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered no- 
thing, but shook hands with them both, and bade them 
good-night. Weir could not speak a word; he could 
hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on 
each of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his 
daughter Catherine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle 
wince and grow red too with the gripe he gave her 
hand. But she smiled again none the less sweetly. 

“ I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back 
to my house and bring the boy with me,” I said, as we 
left. 

It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun 
was setting, the sky the earth and the air lovely with 
rosy light, and the world full of that peculiar calm which 
belongs to the evening of the day of rest. Surely the 
world ought to wake better on the morrow. 

“ Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle!" 
I said, at last. 

“ I thank you very much for taking me to see them,” 
she returned, cordially. 

“You won’t believe all you may happen to hear 
against the working people now V* 

“ I never did.” 

“ There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, 
selfish, unbelieving people amongst them. God knows 
it But there are ladies and gentlemen amongst them 
too.” 


t%7 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ That old man is a gentleman.** 

" He is. And the only way to teach them all to be 
such, is to be such to them. The man who does not 
show himself a gentleman to the working people — ^why 
should I call them the poor 1 some of them are better 
off than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, 
and do it ” 

I had forgot the beginning of my sentence. 

“ You were saying that the man who does not show 
himself a gentleman to the poor ” 

** Is no gentleman at all — only a gentle without the 
man ; and if you consult my namesake old Izaak, you 
will find what that is.’* 

“ I will look. I know your way now. You won’t tell 
me anything I can find out for myself.’* 

** Is it not the best way?” 

‘‘ Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much 
more than you look for.” 

“ Certainly that has been my own experience.** 

“Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?” 

“No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have 
so much of his spirit that I can do two things like 
him.” 

“Tell me.” 

“ Live in the country, though I was not brought up in 
tt ; and know a good man when I see him.” 

“ I am very glad you asked me to go to-night’ 

“ If people only knew their own brothers and sisteis, 
the kingdom of heaven would not be far off.” 

I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she 


TOUNG WKlt. 


2*3 


was silent thereafter; though I allow that her silence 
was not conclusive. And we had now come close to 
the house. 

** I wish I could help you,” I said. 

“In what r 

“To bear what I fear is waiting you.” 

“ I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are 
unequal that we want help. You may have to give it 
me some day — ^who knows 

I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah 
(the white wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in 
my heart, however, over her last words. 

My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, 
before I get very much further with my story, I have to 
confess that I loved Miss Oldcastle. 

When young Tom and I entered the room, his grand- 
father rose and tottered to meet him. His father made 
one step towards him and then hesitated. Of all con- 
ditions of the human mind, that of being ashamed of 
himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. ^ 
The man had never in his life, I believe, done anything 
mean or dishonest, and therefore he had had less fre- 
quent opportunities than most people of being ashamed 
of himself. Hence his fall had been from another pin- 
nacle — that of pride. When a man thinks it such a fine 
thing to have done right, he might almost as well have 
done wrong, for it shows he considers right something 
exfra, not absolutely essential to human existence, not 
the life of a man. I call it Thomas Weir’s fall; for 
surely to behave in an unfatherly manner to both daugh- 


f84 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


ter and son — the one sinful, and therefore needing the 
more tenderness — the other innocent, and therefore 
claiming justification — and to do so from pride, and 
hurt pride, was fall enough in one history, worse a great 
deal than many sins that go by harder names ; for the 
world’s judgment of wrong does not exactly correspond 
with the reality. And now if he was humbled in the 
one instance, there would be room to hope he might 
become humble in the other. But I had soon to see 
that, for a time, his pride, driven from its entrenchment 
against his son, only retreated, with all its forces, into 
the other against his daughter. 

Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far 
that he held out his hand and said : — 

“ Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones.” 

But I stepped between. 

‘‘ Thomas Weir,” I said, ** I have too great a regard 
for you — and you know I dare not flatter you — to let 
you off this way, or rather leave you to think you have 
done your duty when you have not done the half of it. 

• You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How 
can you claim to be a gentleman — I say nothing of be 
ing a Christian, for therein you make no claim^ -how, I 
say, can you claim to act like a gentleman, if, having 
done a man wrong — his being your own son has nothing 
to do with the matter one way or other, except that it 
ought to make you see your duty more easily — having 
done him wrong, why don’t you beg his pardon, I say, 
like a man 1 ” 

He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped 


YOUNG WEIR. 


a«5 


hurriedly forward^ and catching his father’s hand in both 
of his, cried out : 

My father shan’t beg my pardon. I beg yours, 
father, for everything I ever did to displease you, bu» 
I wasn^t to blame in this. I wasn’t, indeed.” 

“ Tom, I beg your pardon,” said the hard man, over- 
come at last. “ And now, sir,” he added, turning to me 
“ will you let by-gones be by-gones between my boy and 
mel” 

There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone. 

“ With all my heart,” I replied. “ But I want just a 
word with you in the shop before I go.” 

‘‘ Certainly,” he answered, stiffly ; and I bade the old 
and the young man good night, and followed him down 
stairs. 

“ Thomas, my friend,” I said, when we got into the 
shop, laying my hand on his shoulder, “ will you after 
this say that God has dealt hardly with you ? There *s 
a son for any man God ever made to give thanks for on 
his knees ! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fair 
play in your heart, and you give fair play neither to your 
own son nor yet to God himself. You close your doors 
and brood over your own miseries, and the wrongs 
people have done you ; whereas, if you would but open 
those doors, you might come out into the light of God’s 
tiuth, and see that His heart is as clear as sunlight to- 
wards yon. You won’t believe this, and therefore natur- 
.illy you can’t quite believe that there is a God at all j 
for, indeed, a being that was not all light would be no 
God at all. If you would but let Him teach you, you 


a86 ANNALS OP A QUIET NBIGHBOUl HOODk 


KTould find your perplexities melt away like the snow in 
soring, till you could hardly believe- you had ever felt 
them. No^ arguing will convince you of a God; but let 
Him once come in, and all argument will be tenfold 
useless to convince you that there is no God. Give 
God Justice. Try Him as I have said. — Good night” 

He did not return my farewell with a single word. 
But the grasp of his strong rough hand was more earnest 
and loving even than usual. I could not see his face, 
for it was almost dark ; but, indeed, I felt that it was 
better I could not see it 

I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night 
whose curtains God had drawn about the earth that il 
migh: sleep till the morrow. 


CHAPTER xnr. 


MY PUPIL. 



LTHOUGH I do happen to know how Misi 
Oldcastle fared that night after I left her, the 
painful record is not essential to my stoiy. 
Besides, I have hitherto recorded only those 
things "quorum pars magna” — or minima^ as the case 
may be — "fui.” There is one exception, old Weir’s 

story, for the introduction of which my reader cannot yet 
see the artistic reason. For whether a story be real in 
fact, or only real in meaning, there must always be an 
idea, or artistic model in the brain, after which it is fash- 
ioned : in the latter case one of invention, in the former 
case one of choice. 

In the middle of the following week I was returning 
horn a visit I had paid to Tomkins and his wife, when I 
met, in the only street of the village, my good and hon- 
oured friend Dr Duncan. Of course I saw him often — 
and T beg my reader to remember that this is no diaiy, 



288 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


but only a gathering together of some of the more re- 
markable facts of my history, admitting of being ideally 
grouped — but this time I recall distinctly because the 
interview bore upon many things. 

“ Well, Dr Duncan,” T said, “ busy as usual fighting 
the devil.” 

“ Ah, my dear Mr Walton,” returned the doctor — and 
a kind word from him went a long way into my heart — 

I know what you mean. You fight the devil from the 
inside, and I fight him from the outside. My chance is 
a poor one.” 

“ It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside 
remedies. But what an opportunity your profession gives 
you of attacking the enemy from the inside as welll 
And you have this advantage over us, that no man can 
say it belongs to your profession to say such things, and 
therefore disregard them.” 

‘‘ Ah, Mr Walton, I have too great a respect for youi 
profession to dare to interfere with it The doctoi io 
* Macbeth,' you know, could 

* not minister to a mind diseased^ 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow. 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain. 

And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff 
Which weighs upon the heart* ” 

“ What a memory you have ! But you don't think I 
can do that any more than you 1” 

“ You know the best medicine to give, anyhow, 1 
wish I always did. But you see we have no theriaca 


now.' 


MY rUFIL. 


289 


“ Well, we have. For the Lord says, * Come unto me, 
and I will give you rest* ** 

** There ! I told you ! That will meet all diseases.** 

“ Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line ot 
Chaucer, with which I will make a small return for your 
quotation from Shakespeare; you have mentioned 
riaca; and I, without thinking of this line, quoted our 
Lord’s words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the 
word triacle is merely a corruption of theriaca^ the unfail- 
ing cure for every thing. 

• Crist, which that b to every harm triacle,* ** 

“That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in 
Chaucer?” 

“ Yes. In the Man-of-Law’s Tale.” 

“ Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly 
from Shakespeare ? I have just come from referring to 
the passage. And I mention that because I want to tell 
you what made me think of the passage. I had been to 
see poor Catherine Weir. I think she is not long for 
this world. She has a bad cough, and I fear her lungs 
are going.” 

“ I am concerned to hear that. I considered her ver>' 
delicate, and am not surprised. But I wish, I do wish, 
I had got a little hold of her before, that I might be of 
some use to her now. Is she in immediate danger, do 
you think ?” 

“ No. I do not think so. But I have no expectation 
of her recovery. Very likely she will just live through 
the winter and die in the spring. Those patients so 

T 


igO ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


often go as the flowers come \ All her coughing, pool 
woman, will not cleanse her stuffed bosom. The perilous 
stuff weighs on her heart, as Shakespeare says, as well as 
on her lungs.” 

“ Ah, dear ! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her 
heart 1 Is it shame, or what is it ? for she is so uncom- 
municative that I hardly know anything at all about her 
yet.” 

** I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence.” 

“ But do not think I complain that she has not made 
me her confessor. I only mean that if she would talk 
at all, one would have a chance of knowing something 
of the state of her mind, and so might give her some 
help.” 

‘‘ Perhaps she will break down all at once, and open 
her mind to you. I have not told her she is dying. I 
think a medical man ought at least to be quite sure be- 
fore he dares to say such a thing. I have known a long 
life injured, to human view at least, by the medical ver- 
dict in youth of ever imminent death.” 

“ Certainly one has no right to say what God is going 
to do with any one till he knows it beyond a doubt. 
Illness has its own peculiar mission, independent of any 
association with coming death, and may often work bet- 
ter when mingled with the hope of life. I mean we must 
take care of presumption when we measure God’s plans 
by our theories. But could you not suggest something, 
Doctor Duncan, to guide me in trying to do my duty by 
herl” 

“ I cannot You see you don*t know what she it 


MY PUPIL. 


291 


thinking; and till you know that, I presume you will 
agree with me that all is an aim in the dark. How can 
I prescribe, without some diagnosis? It is just one of 
those few cases in which one would like to have the 
authority of the Catholic priests to urge confession with. 
I do not think anything will save her life, as we say, but 
you have taught some of us to think of the life that be- 
longs to the spirit as the life ; and I do believe confes- 
sion would do everything for that” 

“ Yes, if made to God. But I will grant that com- 
munication of one’s sorrows or even sins to a wise 
brother of mankind may help to a deeper confession to 
the Father in heaven. But I have no wish for authority 
in the matter. Let us see whether the Spirit of God 
working in her may not be quite as powerful for a final 
illumination of her being as the fiat cofi/essio of a priest. 
I have no confidence in forcing in the moral or spiritual 
garden. A hothouse development must necessarily be 
a sickly one, rendering the plant unfit for the normal 
life of the open air. Wait. We must not hurry things. 
She will perhaps come to me of herself before long. 
But I will call and inquire after her.” 

We parted ; and I went at once to Catherine Weir’s 
shop. She received me much as usual, which was hardly 
to be called receiving at all. Perhaps there was a doubt- 
ful shadow, not of more cordiality, but of less repulsion 
in it. Her eyes were full of a stony brilliance, and the 
flame of the fire that was consuming her glowed upon 
her cheeks more brightly, I thought, than ever ; but that 
might be fancy, occasioned by what the doctor had said 


•93 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


about her. Her hand trembled, but her demeanour wai 
perfectly calm. 

“ I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir,” 
I said 

“ I suppose Dr Duncan told you so, sir. But I am 
quite well. I did not send for him. He called of him- 
self, and wanted to persuade me I was ill.” 

I understood that she felt injured by his interference. 

** You should attend to his advice, though. He is a 
prudent man, and not in the least given to alarming 
people without cause.” 

She returned no answer. So I tried another subject. 

“ What a fine fellow your brother is ! ” 

“ Yes ; he grows very much.” 

Has your father found another place for him yet ? ” 

“ I don’t know. My father never tells me about any 
of his doings.” 

“ But don’t you go and talk to him, sometimes I ” 

“ No. He does not care to see me.” 

" I am going there now : will you come with me ? ” 

“ Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted.” 

“ But it is not right that father and daughter should 
live as you do. Suppose he may not have been so kind 
to you as he ought, you should not cherish resentment 
against him for it. That only makes matters worse, you 
know.” 

“ I never said to human being that he had been un 
kind to me.” 

" And yet you let every person in the village know it* 

“Howr 


MY PUPIL. 




Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed 
now. 

“ You are never seen together. You scarcely speak 
when you meet. Neither of you crosses the other’s 
threshold.” 

“ It is not my fault.” 

“ It is not all your fault, I know. But do you think 
you can go to a heaven at last where you will be able 
to keep apart from each other, he in his house and you 
in your house, without any sign that it was through this 
father on earth that you were born into the world which 
the Father in heaven redeemed by the gift of His own 
Son?” 

She was silent ; and, after a pause, I went on. 

“ I believe, in my heart, that you love your father. I 
could not believe otherwise of you. And you will never 
be happy till you have made it up with him. Have you 
done him no wrong 

At these words, her face turned white — with anger, I 
could see — all but those spots on her cheek-bones, which 
shone out in dreadful contrast to the deathly paleness of 
the rest of her face. Then the returning blood surged 
violently from her heart, and the red spots were lost in 
one crimson glow. She opened her lips to speak, but 
apparently changing her mind, turned and walked 
haughtily out of the shop and closed the door behind 
her. 

I waited, hoping she would recover herself and re- 
turn; but, after ten minutes had passed, I thought if 
better to go away. 


•94 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


As I had told her, I was going to her father^s shop 
There I was received very differently. There was a cer- 
tain softness in the manner of the carpenter which I had 
not observed before, with the same heartiness in the 
shake of his hand which had accompanied my asl 
leave-taking. I had purposely allowed ten days to 
elapse before I called again, to give time for the un- 
pleasant feelings associated with my interference to 
vanish. And now I had something in my mind about 
young Tom. 

“ Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas f ” 

“Not yet, sir. There’s time enough. I don’t want 
to part with him just yet There he is, taking his turn 
at what ’s going. Tom ! ” 

And from the farther end of the large shop, where I 
had not observed him, now approached young Tom, in 
a canvas jacket, looking quite like a workman. 

“Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your 
hand to anything.” 

“ I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn’t handle my 
fathei’s tools,” returned the lad. 

“ I don’t know that quite. I am not just prepared to 
admit it for my own sake. My father is a lawyer, and I 
never could read a chapter in one of his books — his 
tools, you know” 

“ Perhaps you never tried, sir.” 

“ Indeed, I did ; and no doubt I could have done it 
if I had made up my mind to it But I never felt in 
dined to finish the page. And that reminds me why 1 
called to-day. Thomas, I know that lad of yours is fond 


MY PUPIL. 


ns 


of reading. Can you spare him from his work for jin 
hour or so before breakfast]” 

“ To-morrow, sir ?” 

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” I an- 
swered ; “ and there ’s Shakespeare for you.” 

“Of course, sir, whatevej you wish,” said Thomas, 
with a perplexed look, in which pleasure seemed to long 
for confirmation, and to be, till that came, afraid to put 
its “ native semblance on.” 

“ I want to give him some direction in his reading. 
When a man is fond of any tools, and can use them, it 
is worth while showing him how to use them better.” 

“ Oh, thank you, sir !” exclaimed Tom, his face beam- 
ing with delight 

“That ts kind of you, sir! Tom, you're a made 
man I” cried the father. 

“ So,” I went on, “ if you will let him come to me for 
an hour every morning, till he gets another place, say 
from eight to nine, I will see what I can do for him.” 

Tom's face was as red with delight as his sister’s had 
been with anger. And I left the shop somewhat con- 
soled for the pein I had given Catherine, which grieved 
me without making me sorry that I had occasioned it 

I had intended to try to do something from the 
father’s side towards a reconciliation with his daughter. 
But no sooner had I made up my proposal for Tom 
than I saw I had blocked up my own way towards my 
more important end. For I could not bear to seem to 
offer to bribe him even to allow me to do him good. 
Nor would he pee that it was for his good and his 


196 AITNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


daughter’s — not at first. The first impression would be 
that I had a professional end to gain, that the recon 
ciling of father and daughter was a sort of parish busi- 
ness of mine, and that I had smoothed the way to it l)y 
offering a gift — an intellectual one, true, but not, there- 
fore, the less a gift in the eyes of Thomas, who had a 
great respect for books. This was just what would 
irritate such a man, and I resolved to say nothing about 
it, but bide my time. 

When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any oi 
Wordsworth. For I always give people what I like my- 
self, because that must be wherein I can best help them. 
I was anxious, too, to find out what he was capable of. 
And for this, anything that has more than a surface 
meaning will do. I had no doubt about the lad’s in- 
tellect, and now I wanted to see what there was deeper 
than the intellect in him. 

He said he had not. 

I therefore chose one of Wordsworth’s sonnets, not 
one of his best by any means, but suitable for my pur- 
pose — the one entitled, “ Composed during a Storm. 
This I gave him to read, telling him to let me know 
wher. he considered that he had mastered the meaning 
of it, and sat down to my own studies. I remember 1 
was then reading the Anglo-Saxon Gospels. I think it 
was fully half-an-hour before Tom rose and gently 
approached my place. I had not been uneasy about 
the experiment after ten minutes had passed, and aftei 
that time was doubled, I felt certain of some measure ol 
success. This may possibly puzzle my reader; but I 


MY PUPIL. 


297 


will explain. It was clear that Tom did not understand 
the sonnet at first ; and I was not in the least certain 
that he would come to understand it by any exertion of 
his intellect, without further experience. But what I 
was delighted to be made sure of was that Tom at least 
knew that he did not know. For that is the very next 
step to knowing. Indeed, it may be said to be a more 
valuable gift than the other, being of general applica- 
tion ; for some quick people will understand many things 
very easily, but when they come to a thing that is be- 
yond their present reach, will fancy they see a mean- 
ing in it, or invent one, or even — which is far worse — 
pronounce it nonsense ; and, indeed, show themselves 
capable of any device for getting out of the difficulty, 
except seeing and confessing to themselves that they are 
not able to understand it. Possibly this sonnet might 
be beyond Tom now, but, at least, there was great hope 
that he saw, or believed, that there must be something 
beyond him in it I only hoped that he would not fall 
upon some wrong interpretation, seeing he was brooding 
over it so long. 

‘‘Well, Tom,” I said, “ have you made it out 1” 

" I can’t say I have, sir. I ’m afraid I ’m very stupid, 
for I Ve tried hard. I must just ask you to tell me what 
u means. But I must tell you one thing, sir: every 
lime I read it over — twenty times, I daresay — I thought 
I was lying on my mother’s grave, as I lay that terrible 
night; and then at the end there you were standing 
over me and saying, ‘ Can I do anything to help youl’ ” 

1 was struck with astonishment For here, in a won- 


>9^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


derful manner, I saw the imagination outrunning the 
intellect, and manifesting to the heart what the brain 
could not yet understand. It indicated undeveloped 
gifts of a far higher nature than those belonging to the 
mere power of understanding alone. For there was a 
hidden sympathy of the deepest kind between the life 
experience of the lad, and the embodiment of such life 
experience on the part of the poet. But he went on : 

“ I am sure, sir, I ought to have been at my prayers, 
then, but I wasn’t; so I didn’t deserve you to come. 
But don’t you think God is sometimes better to us than 
we deserved” 

“ He is just everything to us, Tom ; and we don’t and 
can’t deserve anything. Now I will try to explain the 
sonnet to you.’' 

I had always had an impulse to teach; not for the 
teaching’s sake, for that, regarded as the attempt to fill 
skulls with knowledge, had always been to me a desolate 
dreariness ; but the moment I saw a sign of hunger, an 
indication of readiness to receive, I was invariably seized 
with a kind of passion for giving. I now proceeded to 
explain the sonnet Having done so, nearly as well as 
I could, Tom said : 

“ It is very strange, sir ; but now that I have heard 
you say what the poem means, I feel as if I had known 
it all the time, though I could not say it.” 

Here at least was no common mind. The reader will 
not be surprised to hear that the hour before breakfast 
cxteniod into two hours after breakfast as well. Noi 
did this take up too much of my time, for the lad wai 


MY PUriL. 


*99 


capable of doing a great deal for himself under the sense 
of help at hand. His father, so far from making any ob- 
jection to the arrangement, was delighted with it. Nor 
do I believe that the lad did less work in the shop for 
it : I learned that he worked regularly till eight o’clock 
every night. 

Now the good of the arrangement was this : I had the 
lad fresh in the morning, clear-headed, with no mists 
from the valley of labour to cloud the heights of under- 
standing. From the exercise of the mind it was a plea- 
sant and relieving change to turn to bodily exertion. 1 
am certain that he both thought and worked better, be- 
cause he both thought and worked. Every literary man 
ought to be mechanical (to use a Shakespearean word) as 
well But it would have been quite a different matter, 
if he had come to me after the labour of the day. He 
would not then have been able to think nearly so well 
But labour, sleep, thought, labour again, seems to me to 
be the right order with those who, earning their bread 
by the sweat of the brow, would yet remember that man 
shall not live by bread alone. Were it possible that our 
mechanics could attend the institutions called by theii 
name in the morning instead of the evening, perhaps we 
should not find them so ready to degenerate into places 
of mere amusement. I am not objecting to the amuse- 
ment ; only to cease to educate in order to amuse is to 
degenerate. Amusement is a good and sacred thing; 
but it is not on a par with education ; and, indeed, if it 
does not in any way further the growth of the highei 
nature, it cannot be called good at all. 


300 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Having exercised him in the analysis of some of the 
best portions of our home literature, — I mean helpeo 
him to take them to pieces, that, putting them togcthei 
again, he might see what kind of things they were — foi 
who could understand a new machine, or find out what 
it was meant for, without either actually or in his mind 
taking it to pieces 1 (which pieces, however, let me re- 
mind my reader, are utterly useless, except in their rela- 
tion to the whole) — I resolved to try something fresh 
with him. 

At this point I had intended to give my readers a 
theory of mine about the teaching and learning of a 
language ; and tell them how I had found the trial of 
it succeed in the case of Tom Weir. But I think this 
would be too much of a digression from the course ot 
my narrative, and would, besides, be interesting to those 
only who had given a good deal of thought to subjects 
belonging to education. I will only say, therefore, that, 
by the end of three months, my pupil, without knowing 
any other Latin author, was able to read any part of the 
first book of the .^neid — to read it tolerably in measure, 
and to enjoy the poetry of it — and this not without a 
knowledge of the declensions and conjugations. As 
to the syntax, I made the sentences themselves teach 
him that. Now I know that, as an end, all this was 
of no great value ; but as a beginning, it was invaluable, 
for it made and kept him hungry for more ; whereas, in 
most modes of teaching, the beginnings are such tliat 
without the pressure of circumstances, no boy, especially 
after an interval of cessat'on, will return to them. Such 


MY PUPIL. 


30c 


is not Nature’s mode, for the beginnings with her are 
as pleasant as the fruition, and that without being less 
thorough than they can be. The knowledge a child 
gains of the external world is the foundation upon which 
all his future philosophy is built. Every discovery he 
makes is fraught with pleasure — that is the secret of his 
progress, and the essence of my theory: that learning 
should, in each individual case, as in the first case, be 
discovery — bringing its own pleasure with it. Nor is 
this to be confounded with turning study into play. It 
is upon the moon itself that the infant speculates, after 
the moon itself that he stretches out his eager hands — 
to find in after years that he still wants her, but that in 
science and poetry he has her a thousand-fold more than 
if she had been handed him down to suck. 

So, after all, I have bored my reader with a shadow 
of my theory, instead of a description. After all, again, 
the description would have plagued him more, and that 
must be both his and my comfort. 

So through the whole of that summer and the follow- 
ing winter, I went on teaching Tom Weir. He was a 
lad of uncommon ability, else he could not have effected 
what I say he had within his first three months of Latin, 
let my theory be not only perfect in itself, but true as 
well — true to human nature, I mean. And his father, 
though his own book-learning was but small, had enough 
of insigh: to perceive that his son was something out of 
the common, and that any possible advantage he might 
lose by remaining in Marshmallows was considerably 
qaorc than counterbalanced by the instruction he got 


JOS ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


from the vicar. Hence, I believe, it was that not a 
word was said about another situation for Tom. And 
I was glad of it ; for it seemed to me that the lad had 

abilities equal to any profession whatevec. 


CHAPTER XV. 


DR Duncan’s story. 

the next Sunday but one — which was sur 
prising to me when I considered the manner 
of our last parting — Catherine Weir was in 
church, for the second time since I had come 
to the place. As it happened, only as Spenser says — 

“ It chanced — eternal God that chance did guide,” 

— and why I say this, will appear afterwards — I had, in 
preaching upon, that is, in endeavouring to enforce the 
Lord’s Prayer by making them think about the meaning 
of the words they were so familiar with, come to the pe- 
tition, “ Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors;” 
with which I naturally connected the words of our 
Lord that follow: “For if ye forgive men their tres- 
passes, your heavenly Father will also forgive you ; but 
if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your 
Father forgive your trespasses.” I need not tell my 



304 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


reader more of what I said about this, than that I tried 
to show that even were it possible with God to forgive 
an unforgiving man, the man himself would not be able 
to believe for a moment that God did forgive him, and 
therefore could get no comfort or help or joy of any 
kind from the forgiveness ; so essentially does hatred, or 
revenge, or contempt, or anything that separates us from 
man, separate us from God too. To the loving soul alone 
does the Father reveal Himself ; for love alone can under- 
stand Him. It is the peace-makers who are His children. 

This I said, thinking of no one more than another of 
my audience. But as I closed my sermon, I could not 
help fancying Chat Mrs Oldcastle looked at me with more 
than her usual fierceness. I forgot all about it, however, 
for I never seemed to myself to have any hold of, or 
relation to, that woman. I know I was wrong in being 
unable to feel my relation to her because I disliked her. 
But not till years after did I begin to understand how she 
felt, or recognize in myself a common humanity with her. 
A sin of my own made me understand her condition. 1 
can hardly explain now; I will tell it when the time 
comes. When I called upon her next, after the inter- 
view last related, she behaved much as if she had for 
gotten all about it, which was not likely. 

In the end of the week after the sermon to which I 
have alluded, I was passing the Hall-gate on my usual 
Saturday’s walk, when Judy saw me from within, as she 
came out of the lodge. She was with me in a moment 

** Mr Walton,” she said, “ how could you preach al 
Grannie as you did last Sunday?” 


DR DUNCAN'S STORY. 


3*>5 


“ I did not preach at anybody, Judy.** 

“Oh, Mr Walton!” 

“ You know I didn’t, Judy. You know that if I had, 
I would not say I had not.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I know that perfectly,” she said, seriously. 
“ But Grannie thinks you did.** 

“ How do you know that V* 

“ By her face.” 

“ That is all, is it 

“ You don’t think Grannie would say so V* 

“ No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what 
she was thinking.’* 

“ Oh ! can t I just 1 I can read her face — not so well 
as plain print ; but, let me see, as well as what Uncle 
Stoddart calls black-letter, at least I know she thought 
you were preaching at her ; and her face said, ‘ I shan’t 
forgive you^ anyhow. I never forgive, and I won’t for 
all your preaching.’ That’s what her face said.” 

“ I am sure she would not say so, Judy,” I said, really 
not knowing what to say. 

“ Oh, no ; she would not say so. She would say, ‘ I 
always forgive, but I never forget’ That ’s a favourite 
saying of hers.” 

“ But, Judy, don’t you think it is rather hypocritical of 
you to say all this to me about your grandmother when 
she is so kind to you, and you seem such good friends 
with herl” 

She looked up in my face with an expression of sur- 
prise. 

** It is all true, Mr Walton,” she said. 

a 


3o6 annals of a quiet neighbourhood^ 


** Perhaps. But you are saying it behind her back.” 

" I will go home and say it to her face directly.” 

She turned to go. 

“ No, no, Judy. I did not mean that,” I said, taking 
her by the arm. 

I won’t say you told me to do it. I thought there 
was no harm in telling you. Grannie is kind to me, and 
I am kind to her. But Grannie is afraid of my tongue, 
and I mean her to be afraid of it. It s the only way to 
keep her in order. Darling Aunt Winnie ! it ’s all she ’s 
got to defend her. If you knew how she treats her some- 
times, you would be cross with Grannie yourself, Mr 
Walton, for all your goodness and your white surplice.” 

And to my yet greater surprise, the wayward girl burst 
out crying, and, breaking away from me, ran through the 
gate, and out of sight amongst the trees, without once 
looking back. 

I pursued my walk, my meditations somewhat discom- 
posed by the recurring question : — Would she go home 
arid tell her grandmother what she had said to mel 
And, if she did, would it not widen the breach upon the 
opposite side of which I seemed to see Ethel wyn stand, 
out of the reach of my help 1 

I walked quickly on to reach a stile by means of which 
I should soon leave the little world of Marshmallows 
quite behind me, and be alone with nature and my 
Greek Testament. Hearing the sound of horse-hoofs 
on the road from Addicehead, 1 glanced up from my 
pocket-book, in which I had been looking over the 
thoughts that had at various moments passed through 


DR Duncan’s story. 




my mind that week, in order to choose one (or more, if 
they would go together) to be brooded over to-day for 
my people’s spiritual diet to-morrow — I say I glanced 
up from my pocket-book, and saw a young man, that is, 
if I could call myself young still, of distinguished ap- 
pearance, approaching upon a good serviceable hack. 
He turned into my road and passed me. He was pale, 
with a dark moustache, and large dark eyes ; sat his horse 
well and carelessly ; had fine leatures of the type com- 
monly considered Grecian, but thin, and expressive 
chiefly of conscious weariness. He wore a white hat 
with crape upon it, white gloves, and long, military- 
looking boots. All this I caught as he passed me ; and 
I remember them, because, looking after him, I saw him 
stop at the lodge of the Hall, ring the bell, and then 
ride through the gate. I confess I did not quite like 
this ; but I got over the feeling so far as to be able to 
turn to my Testament when I had reached and crossed 
the stile. 

I came home another way, after one of the most de- 
lightful days I had ever spent. Having reached the 
river in the course of my wandering, I came down the 
side of it towards Old Rogers’s cottage, loitering and 
looking, quiet in heart and soul and mind, because I 
had committed my cares to Him who careth for us. 
The earth was round me — I was rooted, as it were, in 
it, but the air of a higher life was about me. I was 
swayed to and fro by the motions of a spiritual power ; 
feelings and desires and ’:opes passed through me, 
passed away, and returned ; and still my head rose int« 


^08 AKKALS op a QJIEt NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


the truth, and the will of God was the regnant sunlight 
upon it I might change my place and condition ; new 
feelings might come forth, and old feelings retire intc 
the lonely comers of my being; but still my beail 
should be glad and strong in the one changeless tl.ing, 
in the truth that maketh free ; still my head should rise 
into the sunlight of God, and I should know that be- 
cause He lived I should live also, and because He was 
tme I should remain true also, nor should any change 
pass upon me that should make me mourn the decad- 
ence of humanity. And then I found that I was gaz-ng 
over the stump of an old pollard, on which I was lean- 
ing, down on a great bed of white water-lilies, that lay 
in the broad slow river, here broader and slower than 
in most places. The slanting yellow sunlight shone 
through the water down to the very roots anchored in 
the soil, and the water swathed their stems with cool- 
ness and freshness, and a universal sense, I doubt not, 
of watery presence and nurture. And there on their 
lovely heads, as they lay on the pillow of the water, 
shone the life-giving light of the summer sun, filling all 
the spaces between their outspread petals of living silver 
with its sea of radiance, and making them gleam with 
the whiteness which was bom of them and the sun. 
And then came a hand on my shoulder, and, turning, 1 
saw the gray head and the white smock of my old friend 
Rogers, and I was glad that he loved me enough not to 
be afraid of the parson and the gentleman. 

“ I *ve found it, sir, I do think,” he said, his brown 
fiuTowed old face shining with a yet lovelier light than 



1 


THEN CAME A HAND ON MY SHOULDER 




^ ‘ Mt Ji ^ ^ ' 

1 ‘ ‘»V • >• ' ® V 


^ ' •' ■ • V- - ' 

' v/^. X - 

o ’• V^ * ^ ‘ ^ 

"U, 


V* ^ ^ -- 


I I 


* t 



V- .-ji . : . 


^?*w *. «• i • - V ®".%"fc tf , »Vt ■ w 


- - . 

'-^^a 










‘.V ' 







Dt DUNCAN’S STORY. 




that which shone from the blossoms of the water-lilies, 
though, after what 1 had been thinking about them, it 
was no wonder that they seemed both to mean the same 
thing, — both to shine in the light of His countenance. 

“Found what, Old Rogers?” I returned, raising my- 
self, and laying my hand in return on his shoulder. 

“ Why He was displeased with the disciples for not 
knowing — 

“ What He meant about the leaven of the Pharisees," 
I interrupted. “ Yes, yes, of course. Tell me then.” 

“ I will try, sir. It was all dark to me for days. For 
it appeared to me very nat’ral that, seeing they had no 
bread in the locker, and hearing tell of leaven which 
they weren’t to eat, they should think it had summat to 
do with their having none of any sort. But He didn’t 
seem to think it was right of them to fail into the blun- 
der. For why then ? A man can’t be always right. He 
may be like myself, a foremast-man with no schoolin’ 
but what the winds and the waves puts into him, and 
I ’m thinkin’ those fishermen the Lord took to so 
much were something o’ that sort. * How could they 
help it ? ’ I said to myself, sir. And from that I came 
to ask myself, ‘Could they have helped it?’ If they 
couldn’t. He wouldn’t have been vexed with them. 
Mayhap they ought to ha’ been able to help it. And 
all at once, sir, this momin’, it came to me. I don’t 
know how, but it was give to me, anyhow. And I flung 
down my rake, and I ran in to the old woman, but she 
wasn’t in the way, and so I went back to my work again. 
But when 1 saw you, sir, a readin’ upon the lilies o’ the 


310 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


field, leastways, the lilies o’ the water, I couldn't help 
runnin’ out to tell you. Isn’t it a satisfaction, sir, when 
yer dead reckonin’ runs ye right in betwixt the cheeks 
of the harbour] I see it all now.” 

“ Well, I want to know, old Rogers. I *m not so old 
as you, and so I may live longer ; and every time I read 
that passage, I should like to be able to say to myself, 
*■ Old Rogers gave me this.* ” 

** I only hope I ’m right, sir. It was just this : theii 
heads was full of their dinner because they didn’t know 
where it was to come from. But they ought to ha’ known 
where it always come from. If their hearts had been 
full of the dinner He gave the five thousand hungry men 
and women and children, they wouldn’t have been un- 
comfortable about not having a loaf. And so they 
wouldn’t have been set upon the wrong tack when He 
spoke about the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadduceesj 
and they would have known in a moment what He 
meant. And if I hadn’t been too much of the same sort, 
I wouldn’t have started saying it was but reasonable to 
be in the doldrums because they were at sea with no 
biscuit in the locker.” 

“You’re right ; you must be right, old Rogers. It’s 
as plain as possible,” I cried, rejoiced at the old man’s 
insight. “ Thank you. I ’ll preach about it to-morrow. 
I thought I had got my sermon in Foxborough Wood, 
but I was mistaken ; you had got it” 

But 1 was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon 

r*- 

1 walkeil with him to his cottage and left him, after a 


DR DUNCAN’S STORY. 


311 


greeting with the “ old woman.” Passing then through 
the village, and seeing by the light of her candle the 
form of Catherine Weir behind her counter, I went in. 
I thought old Rogers’s tobacco must be nearly gone, 
and I might safely buy some more. Catherine’s manner 
was much the same as usual. But as she was weighing 
my purchase, she broke out all at once : 

“ It ’s no use your preaching at me, Mr Walton. I 
cannot, I will not forgive. I will do anything but for- 
give. And it ’s no use.” 

“ It is not I that say it, Catherine. It is the Lord 
himself.'* 

I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I 
thought it better to add — 

And I was not preaching at you. I was preaching 
to you, as much as to any one there, and no more.” 

Of this she took no notice, and I resumed ; 

“ Just think of what He says, not what I say.” 

" I can’t help it. If He won’t forgive me, I must go 
without it I can’t forgive.” 

I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt 
that no words of mine could be of further avail at the 
moment The words of our Lord had laid hold of her ; 
that was enough for this time. Nor dared I ask her any 
questions. I had the feeling that it would hurt, not 
help. All I could venture to say, was : 

“ I won’t trouble you with talk, Catherine. Our Lord 
wants to talk to you. It is not for me to interfere. But 
please to remember, if ever you think I can serve you 
in any way, you have only to send for me.” 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


)I2 


She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me 
my parcel. I paid for it, bade her good night, and left 
the shop. 

“ O Lord,” I said in my heart, as I walked away, 
“ what a labour Thou hast with us all ! Shall we evei, 
some day, be all, and quite, good like Thee 1 Help me. 
Fill me with Thy light, that my work may all go to bring 
about the gladness of Thy kingdom — the holy house- 
hold of us brothers and sisters — all Thy children.” 

And now I found that I wanted very much to see my 
friend Dr Duncan. He received me with his stately 
cordiality, and a smile that went farther than all his 
words of greeting. 

“ Come now, Mr Walton, I am just going to sit down 
to my dinner, and you must join me. I think there will 
be enough for us both. There is, I believe, a chicken 
a-piece for us, and we can make up with cheese and a 
glass of — would you believe it t — my own father’s port. 
He was fond of port — the old man — though I never saw 
him with one glass more aboard than the registered 
tonnage. He always sat light on the water. Ah, deal 
me ! I’m old myself now.” 

“ But what am I to do with Mrs Pearson 1” I said. 
“ There ’s some chef-d'oeuvre of hers waiting for me by 
this time. She always treats me particularly well on 
Saturdays and Sundays.” 

“Ah! then, you must not stop with me. You will 
tare better at home.” 

“ But I should much prefer stopping with you. Couldn’t 
you send a message for mel” 


DK DUNCAN’S STORT. 


3IJ 


“ To be sure. My boy will run with it at once.” 

Now, what is the use of writing all this 1 I do not 
know. Only that even a dinner with an old 

friend, now that I am an old man myself, has such a 
pearly halo about it in the mists of the past, that every 
little circumstance connected with it becomes interest- 
ing, though it may be quite unworthy of record. So, 
kind reader, let it stand. 

We sat down to our dinner, so simple and so well- 
cooked that it was just what I liked. I wanted very 
much to tell my friend what had occurred in Catherine’s 
shop, but I would not begin till we were safe from in 
terruption; and so we chatted away concerning many 
things, he telling me about his seafaring life, and I tell- 
ing him some of the few remarkable things that had 
happened to me in the course of my life-voyage. There 
is no man but has met with some remarkable things 
that other people would like to know, and which would 
seem stranger to them than they did at the time to the 
person to whom they happened. 

At length I brought our conversation round to my 
interview with Catherine Weir. 

“ Can you understand,” I said, “ a woman finding it 
so hard to forgive her own father 1” 

“ Are you sure it is her father 1” he returned. 

“ Surely she has not this feeling towards more than 
one. That she has it towards her father, I know.” 

** I don’t know,” he answered. ‘‘ I have known re- 
sentment preponderate over every other feeling and 
passion — in the mind of a woman too, I once heard 


314 AHNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


of a good woman who cherished this feeling against a 
good man because of some distrustful words he had 
once addressed to herself. She had lived to a great 
age, and was expressing to her clergyman her desire 
that God would take her away : she had been waiting a 
long time. The clergyman — a very shrewd as well as 
devout man, and not without a touch of humour, said : 
‘ Perhaps God doesn’t mean to let you die till you ’ve 

forgiven Mr She was as if struck with a flash ol 

thought, sat silent during the rest of his visit, and when 

the clergyman called the next day, he found Mr 

and her talking together very quietly over a cup of tea. 
And she hadn’t long to wait after that, I was told, but 
was gathered to her fathers — or went home to her chil- 
dren, whichever is the better phrase.” 

“ I wish I had had your experience. Dr Duncan,” I 
said. 

“I have not had so much experience as a general 
practitioner, because I have been so long at sea. But 
T am satisfied that until a medical man knows a good 
deal more about his patient than most medical men 
give themselves the trouble to find out, his prescriptions 
will partake a good deal more than is necessary of hap- 
hazard. — As to this question of obstinate resentment, I 
know one case in which it is the ruling presence of a 
woman’s life — the very light that is in her is resentment, 
I think her possessed myself.” 

“ Tell me something about her.” 

** I wilL But even to you I will mention no names. 
Not that I have her confidence in the least But I thinJi 


Dft Duncan's stoky. 


31S 


it is better not. I was called to attend a lady at a house 
where I had never yet been.” 

** Was »’t in I began, but checked myself. Di 

Duncan smiled and went on without remark. I could 
see that he told his story with great care, lest, I thought, 
he should let anything slip that might give a clue to the 
place or people. 

‘‘ I was led up into an old-fashioned, richly-furnished 
room. A great wood-fire burned on the hearth. The 
bed was surrounded with heavy dark curtains, in which 
the shadowy remains of bright colours were just visible. 
In the bed lay one of the loveliest young creatures I had 
ever seen. And, one on each side, stood two of the most 
dreadful-looking women I had ever beheld. Still as 
death, while I examined my patient, they stood, with 
moveless faces, one as white as the other. Only the eyes 
of both of them were alive. One w'as evidently mistress, 
and the other servant The latter looked more self-con- 
tained than the former, but less determined and possibly 
more cruel. That both could be unkind at least, was 
plain enough. There was trouble and signs of inward 
conflict in the eyes of the mistress. The maid gave no 
sign of any inside to her at all, but stood watching her 
mistress. A child’s toy was lying in a corner of the 
room.” 

I may here interrupt my friend’s story to tell my 
reader that I may be mingling some of my own conclu- 
sions with what the good man told me of his. For he 
will see well enough already that I had in a moment 
attached his description to persons I knew, and, as it 


3i6 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


turned out, correctly, though I could not be certain about 
it till the story had advanced a little beyond this early 
stage of its progress. 

“ I found the lady very weak and very feverish — a 
quick feeble pulse, now bounding, and now intermitting 
— and a restlessness in her eye which I felt contained 
be secret of her disorder. She kept glancing, as if in 
voluntarily, towards the door, which would not open for 
all her looking, and I heard her once murmur to herself 
— for I was still quick of hearing then — ‘ He won’t 
come 1’ Perhaps I only saw her lips move to those words 
— I cannot be sure, but I am certain she said them in 
her heart I prescribed for her as far as I could venture, 
but begged a word with her mother. She went with me 
into an adjoining room. 

“ ‘ The lady is longing for something,* I said, not 
wishing to be so definite as 1 could have been 

“The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut 
yet closer than before. 

“ ‘She is your daughter, is she notl* 

“ ‘ Yesi,* — very decidedly. 

“ ‘ Could you not find out what she wishes!* 

“ ‘ Perhaps I could guess.* 

“ ‘ I do not think I can do her any good till she has 
what she wants.’ 

“ ‘ Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor V she said, 
tartly. 

“ ‘ Yes, certainly,* I answered — ‘ in the present case 
Is she married !* 

•“Yes.* 


DR Duncan’s story. 


3*T 


“ ‘ Has she any children t * 

“ * One daughter.' 

“ ‘ Let her see her, then.* 

** ‘ She does not care to see her/ 

“ ‘ Where is her husband V 

“ ‘ Excuse me, doctor ; I did not send for you to ask 
questions, but to give advice.’ 

“ ‘ And I came to ask questions, in order that I might 
give advice. Do you think a human being is like a 
clock, that can be taken to pieces, cleaned, and put to 
gether again V 

** * My daughter’s condition is not a fit subject foi 
jesting.' 

“ ‘ Certainly not. Send for her husband, or the un- 
dertaker, whichever you please,' I said, forgetting my 
manners and my temper together, for I was more irri- 
table then than I am now, and there was something so 
repulsive about the woman, that I felt as if I was talking 
to an evil creature that for her own ends, though what I 
could not tell, was tormenting the dying lady. 

“ * I understood you were a gentleman — of experience 
and breeding.' 

“ ‘ I am not in the question, madam. It is yoiu 
daughter.’ 

‘‘ * She shall take your prescription.' 

“ * She must see her husband if it be possible.’ 

“ * It is not possible.' 

« ‘ Why?' 

“ ‘ I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good 
morning.' 


Jl8 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ 1 could say no more at that time I called the next 
day. She was just the same, only that I knew she 
M'anted to speak to me, and dared not, because of the 
presence of the two women. Her troubled eyes seemed 
searching mine for pity and help, and I could not tell 
what to do for her. There are, indeed, as some one 
says, strongholds of injustice and wrong into which no 
law can enter to help. 

“ One afternoon, about a week after my first visit, I 
was sitting by her bedside, wondering what could be 
done to get her out of the clutches of these tormentors, 
who were, evidently to me, consuming her in the slow fire 
of her own affections, when I heard a faint noise, a rapid 
foot in the house so quiet before ; heard doors open and 
shut, then a dull sound of conflict of some sort. Pre- 
sently a quick step came up the oak-stair. The face of 
my patient flushed, and her eyes gleamed as if her soul 
would come out of them. Weak as she was she sat up 
in bed, almost without an effort, and the two women 
dstfted from the room, one after the other. 

“‘My husband!’ said the girl — for indeed she was 
little more in age, turning her face, almost distorted with 
eagerness, towards me. 

“ ‘ Yes, my dear,^ I said, ‘ I know. But you must be 
as still as you can, else you will be very ill. Do keep 
quiet* 

“ ‘ I will, I will,* she gasped, stuffing her pocket-hand- 
kerchief actually into her mouth to prevent herself from 
screaming, as if that was what would hurt her, * But go 
to ’''UL They will murder him. * 


DR Duncan’s story. 


3^9 


“ That moment I heard a cry, and what sounded like 
an articulate imprecation, but both from a woman’s voice ; 
and the next, a young man — as fine a fellow as I ever 
saw — dressed like a game-keeper, but evidently a gentle- 
man, walked into the room with a quietness that strangely 
contrasted with the dreadful paleness of his face and with 
his disordered hair; while the two women followed, as 
red as he was white, and evidently in fierce wrath from a 
fruitless struggle with the powerful youth. He walked 
gently up to his wife, whose outstretched arms and face 
followed his face as he came round the bed to where she 
was at the other side, till arms, and face, and head, fell 
into his embrace. 

“ I had gone to the mother. 

“ * Let us have no scene now,^ I said, ‘ or her blood 
will be on your head.’ 

** She took no notice of what I said, but stood silently 
glaring, not gazing, at the pair. I feared an outburst, 
and had resolved, if it came, to carry her at once from 
the room, which I was quite able to do then, Mr Wal- 
ton, though I don’t look like it now. But in a moment 
more the young man, becoming uneasy at the motion- 
lessness of his wife, lifted up her head, and glanced in 
her face. Seeing the look of terror in his, I hastened 
to him, and lifting her from him, laid her down — dead. 
Disease of the heart, I believe. The mother burst into 
a shriek — not of horror, or grief, or remorse, but ol 
deadly hatred. 

•• * Look at your work ! * she cried to him, as he stood 
gazing in stupor on the face of the girl ‘ You said sb« 


jaO ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


was yours, not mine ; take her. You may have her now 
you have killed her/ 

“ ‘ He may have killed her ; but you have murdered 
her, madam,’ I said, as I took the man by the arm, and 
led him away, yielding like a child But the moment 1 
got him out of the house, he gave a groan, and, break- 
ing away from me, rushed down a road leading from the 
back of the house towards the home-farm. I followed, 
but he had disappeared. I went on ; but before I could 
reach the farm, I heard the gallop of a horse, and saw 
him tearing away at full speed along the London road. 
I never heard more of him, or of the story. Some 
women can be secret enough, I assure you.” 

I need not follow the rest of our conversation. I 
could hardly doubt whose was the story I had heard. 
It threw a light upon several things about which I had 
been perplexed. What a horror of darkness seemed to 
hang over that family ! What deeds of wickedness ! 
But the reason was clear ; the horror came from within ; 
selfishness, and fierceness of temper were its source — no 
unhappy doom. The worship of one’s own will fumes out 
around the being an atmosphere of evil, an altogether 
abnormal condition of the moral firmament, out of which 
will break the veiy flames of hell. The consciousness 
of birth and of breeding, instead of stirring up to deeds 
of gentleness and “ high emprise,” becomes then but 
an incentive to violence and cruelty ; and things which 
seem as if they could not happen in a civilized country 
and a polished age, are proved as possible as ever where 
the heart is unloving, the feelings unrefined, self the 


DR DUNCAN'S STORY. 


3ai 


centre, and God nowhere in the man or woman’s vision. 
The terrible things that one reads in old histories, or in 
modem newspapers, were done by human beings, not 
by demons. 

I did not let my friend know that I knew all that he 
concealed ; but I may as well tell my reader now, what 
I could not have told him then. I know all the story 
now, and, as no better place will come, as far as I can 
see, I will tell it at once, and briefly. 

Dorothy — a wonderful name, the gift of God^ to be so 
treated, faring in this, however, like many other of God’f 
gilts — Dorothy Oldcastle was the eldest daughter ol 
Jeremy and Sibyl Oldcastle, and the sister therefore ol 
Ethelwyn. Her father, who was an easy-going man, 
entirely under the dominion of his wife, died when she 
was about fifteen, and her mother sent her to school, 
with especial recommendation to the care of a clergyman 
in the neighbourhood, whom Mrs Oldcastle knew; for, 
somehow — and the fact is not so unusual as to justify 
especial inquiry here — though she paid no attention to 
what our Lord or His apostles said, nor indeed seemed 
to care to ask herself if what she did was right, or what 
she accepted (I cannot say believed') was true, she had 
yet a certain (to me all but incompreherxsible) leaning 
to the clergy. I think it belongs to the same kind of 
superstition which many of our own day are turning to. 
Offered the Spirit of God for the asking, offered it by 
the Lord himself, in the misery of their unbelief they 
betake themselves to necromancy instead, and raise 
the dead to ask their advice, and follow it, and will find 

X 


32 * 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


some day that Satan had not forgotten how to dress like 
an angel of light. Nay, he can be more cunning with 
the demands of the time. We are clever : he will be 
cleverer. Why should he dress and not speak like an 
angel of light ? Why should he not give good advice if 
that will help to withdraw people by degrees from re- 
garding the source of all good ? He knows well enough 
that good advice goes for little, but that what fills the 
heart and mind goes for much. What religion is there 
in being convinced of a future state 1 Is that to worship 
God? It is no more religion than the belief that the 
sun will rise to-morrow is religion. It may be a source 
of happiness to those who could not believe it before, 
but it is not religion. Where religion comes that will 
certainly be likewise, but the one is not the other. The 
devil can afford a kind of conviction of that. It costs 
him little. But to believe that the spirits of the departed * 
are the mediators between God and us is essential pagan- 
ism — to call it nothing worse j and a bad enough name 
too since Christ has come and we have heard and seen 
the only-begotten of the Father. Thus the instinctive 
desire for the wonderful, the need we have of a revela- 
tion from above us, denied its proper food and nourish- 
ment, turns in its hunger to feed upon garbage. As a 
devout German says — I do not quote him quite correctly 
— Where God rules not, demons will.” Let us once 
»ce with our spiritual eyes the Wonderful, the Coun- 
sellor, and surely we shall not turn from Him to seek 
elsewhere the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. 

Those who sympathize with my feeling in regard to 


DE Duncan’s story. 


323 


this form of the materialism of our day, will forgive this 
divergence. I submit to the artistic blame of such as 
do not, and return to my story. 

Dorothy was there three or four years. I said I would 
be brief She and the clergyman’s son fell in love with 
each other. The mother heard of it, and sent for hei 
home. She had other views for her. Of course, in 
such eyes, a daughter’s fancy was, irrespective of its ob- 
ject altogether, a thing to be sneered at But she found, 
to her fierce disdain, that she had not been able to keep 
all her beloved obstinacy to herself : she had transmitted 
a portion of it to her daughter. But in her it was com- 
bined with noble qualities, and, ceasing to be the evil 
thing it was in her mother, became an honourable firm- 
ness, rendering her able to withstand her mother’s stormy 
importunities. Thus Nature had begun to right herself 
— the right in the daughter turning to meet and defy the 
wrong in the mother, and that in the same strength of 
character which the mother had misused for evil and 
selfish ends. And thus the bad breed was broken. She 
was and would be true to her lover. The consequent 
scenes were dreadful. The spirit but not the will of the 
girl was all but broken. She felt that she could not 
sustain the strife long. By some means, unknown to 
my informant, her lover contrived to communicate with 
her. He had, through means of relations who had great 
influence with Government, procured a good appoint- 
ment in India, whither he must sail within a month. 
The end was that she left her mother’s house. Mi 
Gladwyn was waiting for her near, and conducted hei 


324 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


to his father’s, who had constantly refused to aid Mrj 
Oldcastle by interfering in the matter. They were mar- 
ried next day by the Clergyman of a neighbouring parish. 
But almost immediately she was taken so ill, that it was 
impossible for her to accompany her husband, and she 
was compelled to remain behind at the rectory, hoping 
to join him the following year. 

Before the time arrived, she gave birth to my little 
friend Judy; and her departure was again delayed by a 
return of her old complaint, probably the early stages of 
the disease of which she died. Then, just as she was 
about to set sail for India, news arrived that Mr Gladwyn 
had had a sunstroke, and would have leave of absence 
and come home as soon as he was able to be moved ; 
60 that instead of going out to join him, she must wait 
for him where she was. His mother had been dead for 
some time. His father, an elderly man of indolent habits, 
was found dead in his chair one Sunday morning soon 
ifter the news had arrived of the illness of his son, to 
whom he was deeply attached. And so the poor young 
creature was left 9^1one with her child, without money, 
and in weak health. The old man left nothing behind 
him but his furniture and books. And nothing could be 
done in arranging his affairs till the arrival of his son, of 
whom the last accounts had been that he was slowly 
recovering. In the meantime his wife was in want of 
money, without a friend to whom she could apply. 1 
presume that one of the few parishioners who visited 
at tie rectory had written to acquaint Mrs Oldcastle 
with the condition in which her daughter was left, for. 


DU DUNCAN’S STOAT. 


3a$ 


influenced by motives of which I dare not take upon m* 
to conjecture an analysis, she wrote, offering her daughter 
all that she required in her old home. Whether she 
fore-intended her following conduct, or old habit re- 
turned with the return of her daughter, I cannot tell; 
but she had not been more than a few days in the house 
before she began to tyrannise over her, as in old times, 
and although Mrs Gladwyn’s health, now always weak, 
was evidently failing in consequence, she either did not 
see the cause, or could not restrain her evil impulses. 
At length the news arrived of Mr Gladwyn’s departure 
for home. Perhaps then for the first time the tempta- 
tion entered her mind to take her revenge upon him, by 
making her daughter’s illness a pretext for refusing him 
admission to her presence. She told her she should 
not see him till she was better, for that it would make 
her worse ; persisted in her resolution after his arrival ; 
and effected, by the help of Sarah, that he should not 
gain admittance to the house, keeping all the doors 
locked except one. It was only by the connivance of 
Ethelwyn, then a girl about fifteen, that he was ad- 
mitted by the underground way, of which she unlocked 
the upper door for his entrance. She had then guided 
him as far as she dared, and directed him the rest of the 
way to his wife’s room. 

My reader will now anderstand how it came about In 
the process of writing these my recollections, that I have 
given such a long chapter chiefly to that one evening spent 
with my good friend, Pr Duncan ; for he will see, as I have 
said, that wha he told me opened up a good deal to 


336 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I had very little time for the privacy of the church 
that night. Dark as it was, however, I went in before I 
went home : I had the key of the vestry-door always in 
my pocket I groped my way into the pulpit, and sal 
down in the darkness, and thought Nor did my per- 
sonal interest in Dr Duncan^s story make me forget poor 
Catherine Weir and the terrible sore in her heart, the 
sore of unforgivingness. And I saw that of herself she 
would not, could not, forgive to all eternity ; that all the 
pains of hell could not make her forgive, for that it was 
a divine glory to forgive, and must come from God. 
Ai d thinking of Mrs Oldcastle, I saw that in ourselves 
we could be sure of no safety, not from the worst and 
vilest sins ; for who could tell how he might not stupify 
himself by degrees, and by one action after another, 
each a little worse than the former, till the very fires of 
Sinai would not flash into eyes blinded with the incense 
arising to the golden calf of his worship 1 A man may 
come to worship a devil without knowing it Only by 
being filled with a higher spirit than our own, which, 
having caused our spirits, is one with our spirits, and is 
in them the present life principle, are we or can we be 
safe from this eternal death of our being. This spirit 
was fighting the evil spirit in Catherine Weir : how was 
I to urge her to give ear to the good ? If will “rould 
but side with God, the forces of self, deserted by their 
leader, must soon quit the field ; and the woman — the 
kingdom within her no longer torn by conflicting forces 
— would sit quiet at the feet of the Master, repos ng in 
that rest which He offered to those who could come to 


D» DUNCAN*S STCmY. 


3 *^ 


Him. Might she not be roused to utter one feeble cry 
CO God for help ? That would be one step towards the 
forgiveness of others. To ask something for herself 
would be a great advance in such a proud nature as 
hers. And to ask good heartily is the very next step to 
giving good heartily. 

Many thoughts such as these passed through my mind, 
chiefly associated with her. For I could not think how 
to think about Mrs Oldcastle yet And the old church 
gloomed about me all the time. And I kept lifting up 
my heart to the God who had cared to make me, and 
then drew me to be a preacher to my fellows, and had 
surely something to give me to say to them; for did 
He not choose so to work by the foolishness of preach- 
ing? — Might not my humble ignorance work His will, 
though my wrath could not work His righteousness? 
And I descended from the pulpit thinking with myself, 
“ Let Him do as He will. Here I am. I will say what 
I see : let Him make it good.” 

And the next morning, I spoke about the words of out 
lx)rd : 

“ If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts 
to your children, how much more shall your heavenly 
Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him !” 

And I looked to see. And there Catherine Weil 
sat, looking me in the face. 

There likewise sat Mrs Oldcastle, looking me in the 
face too. 

And Judy sat there, also looking me in the face, at 
serious as man could wish grown woman to look. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THa ORGAN. 



'NE little matter I forgot to mention as having 
been talked about between Dr Duncan and 
myself that same evening. I happened to 
refer to Old Rogers. 


“What a fine old fellow that is !” said Dr Duncan. 

“ Indeed he is,” I answered. “ He is a great comfort 
and help to me. I don’t think anybody but myself has 
an idea what there is in that old man.” 

“The people in the village don’t quite like him, 
though, I find. He is too ready to be down upon them 
when he sees things going amiss. The fact is, they are 
afraid of him.” 

“ Something as the Jews were afraid of John the Bap- 
tist, because he was an honest man, and spoke not merely 
his own mind, but the mind of God in it.” 

“Just so. I believe you’re quite right Do you 
know, the other day, happening to go into Weir’s shop 


THE OEGAN. 


329 


lo get him to do a job for me, I found him and Old 
Rogers at close quarters in an argument ? I could not 
well understand the drift of it, not having been present 
at the beginning, but I soon saw that, keen c.s Weir was, 
and far surpassing Rogers in correctness of speech, and 
precision as well, the old sailor carried too heavy metal 
for the carpenter. It evidently annoyed Weir ; but such 
was the good humour of Rogers, that he could not, for 
very shame, lose his temper, the old man’s smile again 
and again compelling a response on the thin cheeks of 
fhe other.” 

“ I know how he would talk exactly,” I returned. 
‘ He has a kind of loving banter with him, if you will 
allow me the expression, that is irresistible to any man 
with a heart in his bosom. I am very glad to hear there 
is anything like communion begun between them. Weir 
vill get good from him.” 

‘ My man-of-all-work is going to leave me. I wonder 
if the old man would take his place 

I do not know whether he is fit for it. But of one 
ining you may be sure — if Old Rogers does not honestly 
believe he is fit for it, he will not take it. And he will 
tell you why, too.” 

“ Of that, however, I think I may be a better judge 
than he. There is nothing to which a good sailor cannot 
turn his hand, whatever he may think himself. You see, 
Mr Walton, it is not like a routine trade. Things are 
never twice the same at sea. The sailor has a thousand 
chances of using his judgment, if he has any to use ; and 
‘bat Old Rogers has in no common degree. So I should 


S^o 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


have no fear of him. If he won’t let me steer him, you 
must put your hand to the tiller for me.” 

“ I will do what I can,” I answered ; “ for nothing 
would please me moie than to see him in your service. 
It would be much better for him, and his wife too, than 
living by uncertain jobs as he does now.” 

The result of it all was, that Old Rogers consented to 
try for a month ; but when the end of the month came, 
nothing was said on either side, and the old man re- 
mained. And I could see several little new comforts 
about the cottage, in consequence of the regularity of his 
wages. 

Now I must report another occurrence in regular 
sequence. 

To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to my 
discomposure, when I rose in the reading-desk on the 
day after this dinner with Dr Duncan, I saw that the 
Hall-pew was full. Miss Oldcastle was there for the first 
time, and, by her side, the gentleman whom the day be- 
fore I had encountered on horseback. He sat carelessly, 
easily, contentedly — indifferently ; for, although I never 
that morning looked up from my Prayer-book, except 
involuntarily in the changes of posture, I could not help 
seeing that he was always behind the rest of the congre- 
gation, as if he had no idea of what was coming next, or 
did not care to conform. Gladly would I, that day, have 
shunned the necessity of preaching that was laid upon 
me. ** But,” T said to myself, ‘‘ shall the work given me 
to do fare ill because of the perturbation of my spirit I 
No harm is done, though I suffer; but much harm if one 


THE ORGAN. 


33 « 


tone fails ot its force because I suffer.” I therefore 
prayed God to help me ; and feeling the right, because 
I felt the need, of looking to Him for aid, I cast my care 
upon Him, kept my thoughts strenuously away from that 
which discomposed me, and never turned my eyes to- 
wards the Hall-pew from the moment I entered the pul- 
pit. And partly, I presume, from the freedom given by 
the sense of irresponsibility for the result, I being weak 
and God strong, I preached, I think, a better sermon 
than I had ever preached before. But when I got into 
the vestry I found that I could scarcely stand for trem- 
bling ; and I must have looked ill, for when my attendant 
came in he got me a glass of wine without even asking 
me if I would have it, although it was not my custom to 
take any there. But there was one of my congregation 
that morning who suffered more than I did from the 
presence of one of those who filled the Hall-pew. 

I recovered in a few moments from my weakness, but, 
altogether disinclined to face any of my congregation, 
went out at my vestry-door, and home through the shrub- 
bery — a path I seldom used, because it had a separatist 
look about it When I got to my study, I threw myseli 
on a couch, and fell fast asleep. How often in trouble 
have I had to thank God for sleep as for one of His best 
gifts ! And how often when I have awaked refreshed 
and calm, have I thought of poor Sir Philip Sidney, who, 
d)dng slowly and patiently in the prime of life and health, 
was sorely troubled in his mind to know how he had 
offended God, because, having prayed earnestly for sleeps 
no sleep came in answer to his ciy 1 


33a ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I woke just in time for my afternoon service ; and the 
inward peace in which I found my heart was to myself a 
marvel and a delight. I felt almost as if I was walking 
in a blessed dream come from a world of serener air than 
this of ours. I found, after I was already in the reading- 
desk, that I was a few minutes early ; and while, with 
bowed head, I was simply living in the consciousness of 
the presence of a supreme quiet, the first low notes of 
the organ broke upon my stillness with the sense of a 
deeper delight. Never before had I felt, as I felt that 
afternoon, the triumph of contemplation in Handel’s 
rendering of “ I know that my Redeemer liveth.” And 
I felt how through it all ran a cold silvery quiver of sad- 
ness, like the light in the east after the sun is gone down, 
which would have been pain, but for the golden glow ol 
the west, which looks after the light of the world with a 
patient waiting. — Before the music ceased, it had crossed 
my mind that I had never before heard that organ utter 
itself in the language of Handel. But I had no time to 
think more about it just then, for I rose to read the 
words of our Lord, “ I will arise and go to my Father.” 

There was no one in the Hall-pew ; indeed it was a 
rare occurrence if any one was there in the afternoon. 

But for all the quietness oi my mind during that 
evening service, I felt ill before I went to bed, and 
awoke in the morning with a headache, which increased 
along with other signs of perturbation of the system, 
until I thought it better to send for Dr Duncan. I have 
not yet got so imbecile as to suppose that a histoi)’ of 
the following six weeks would be interesting to my 


THE ORGAN. 


333 


readers — for during so long did I suffer from low fever ; 
and more weeks passed during which I was unable to 
meet my flock. Thanks to the care of Mr Brownrigg, a 
clever young man in priest’s orders, who was living at 
Addicehead while waiting for a curacy, kindly undertook 
my duty for me, and thus relieved me flfQm all anxiety 
about supplying my place* 


CHAPTER XVIL 


THE CHURCH-RATE, 

ffl UT I cannot express equal satisfaction in le 
gard to everything that Mr Brownrigg took 
upon his own responsibility, as my reader 
will see. He, and another farmer, his neigh- 
bour, had been so often re-elected churchwardens, that 
at last they seemed to have gained a prescriptive right 
to the office, and the form of election fell into disuse ; 
so much so, that after Mr Summer’s death, which took 
place some year and a half before I became Vicar of 
Marshmallows, Mr Brownrigg continued to exercise the 
duty in his own single person, and nothing had as yet 
been said about the election of a colleague. So little 
seemed to fall to the duty of the churchwarden that I 
regarded the neglect as a trifle, and was remiss in setting 
it right I had, therefore, to suffer, as was just In- 
deed, Mr Brownrigg was not the man to have power is 
bis hands uschecked* 


THE CHURCH-RATE, 


335 


I had so far recovered that I was able to rise about 
noon and go into my study, though I was very weak, 
and had not yet been out, when one morning Mrs Pear- 
son came into the room and said, — 

“ Please, sir, here *s young Thomas Weir in a great 
way about something, and insisting upon seeing you, it 
you possibly can.’' 

I had as yet seen very few of my friends, except the 
Doctor, and those only for two or three minutes ; but 
although I did not feel very fit for seeing anybody just 
then, I could not but yield to his desire, confident there 
must be a good reason for it, and so told Mrs Pearson 
to show him in. 

“ Oh, sir, I know you would be vexed if you hadn’t 
been told,” he exclaimed, “ and I am sure you will not 
be angry with me for troubling you.” 

“What is the matter. Torn?” I said. “ I assure you 
I shall not be angry with you.” 

“There’s Farmer Brownrigg, at this very moment, 
taking away Mr Templeton’s table because he won't 
pay the church-rate.” 

“What church-rate?” I cried, starting up from the 
sofa. “ I never heard of a church-rate.” 

Now, before I go farther, it is necessary to explain 
some things. One day before I was taken ill, I had had 
a little talk with Mr Brownrigg about some repairs of the 
church which were necessary, and must be done before 
another winter. I confess I was rather pleased ; for I 
wanted my people to feel that the church wag their 
property, and that it was their privilege, if they could 


336 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOODl 


regard it as a blessing to have the church, to keep it in 
decent order and repair. So I said, in a by-the-by way, 
to my churchwarden, “We must call a vestry before 
long, and have this looked to.” Now my predecessor 
had left everything of the kind to his churchwardens ; 
and the inhabitants from their side had likewise left the 
whole affair to the churchwardens. But Mr Brownrigg, 
who, I must say, had taken more pains than might 
have been expected of him to make himself acquainted 
with the legalities of his office, did not fail to call a 
vestry, to which, as usual, no one had responded; 
whereupon he imposed a rate according to his own 
unaided judgment. This, I believe, he did during my 
illness, with the notion of pleasing me by the discovery 
that the repairs had been already effected according 
to my mind. Nor did any one of my congregation 
throw the least difficulty in the churchwarden’s way. — 
And now I must refer to another circumstance in the 
history of my parish. 

I think I have already alluded to the fact that there 
were Dissenters in Marshmallows. There was a little 
chapel down a lane leading from the main street of the 
village, in which there was service three times every 
Sunday. People came to it from many parts of the 
parish, amongst whom were the families of two or three 
farmers of substance, while the village and its neigh- 
bourhood contributed a portion of the poorest of the 
inhabitants. A year or two before I came, their minister 
died, and they had chosen another, a very worthy man, 
of considerable erudition, but of extreme views, as J 


THE CHUECH-EATl. 


139 


heard, upon insignificant points, and moved by a great 
dislike to national churches and episcopacy. This, I 
say, is what I had made out about him from what I had 
heard ; and my reader will very probably be inclined to 
ask, “ But why, with principles such as yours, should 
you have only hearsay to go upon 9 Why did you not 
make the honest man’s acquaintance ? In such a small 
place, men should not keep each other at arm’s length.” 
And any reader who says so, will say right. All I have 
to suggest for myself is simply a certain shyness, for 
which I cannot entirely account, but which was partly 
made up of fear to intrude, or of being supposed to 
arrogate to myself the right of making advances, partly 
of a dread lest we should not be able to get on to- 
gether, and so the attempt should result in something 
unpleasantly awkward. I daresay, likewise, that the 
natural shelliness of the English had something to do with 
it. At all events, I had not made his acquaintance. 

Mr Templeton, then, had refused, as a point of con- 
science, to pay the church-rate when the collector went 
round to demand it; had been summoned before a 
magistrate in consequence ; had suffered a default ; and, 
proceedings being pushed from the first in all the pride 
of Mr Brownrigg’s legality, had on this very day. been 
visited by the churchwarden, accompanied by a brokei 
from the neighbouring town of Addicehead, and at the 
very time when I was hearing of the fact was suffering 
distraint of his goods. The porcine head of the church* 
warden was not on his shoulders by accident, nor with- 
out significance. 

¥ 


33* ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


But I did not wait to understand all this now. It 
was enough for me that Tom bore witness to the fact 
that at that moment proceedings were thus driven to 
extremity. I rang the bell for my boots, and, to the 
open-mouthed dismay of Mrs Pearson, left the vicarage 
leaning on Tom’s arm. But such was the commotion 
in my mind, that I had become quite unconscious of 
illness or even feebleness. Hurrying on in more terror 
than I can well express lest I should be too late, I reached 
Mr Templeton’s house just as a small mahogany table 
was being hoisted into a spring-cart which stood at 
the door. Breathless with haste, I was yet able to call 
out, — 

** Put that table down directly.” 

At the same moment Mr Brownrigg appeared from 
within the door. He approached with the self-satisfied 
look of a man who has done his duty, and is proud of 
it. I think he had not heard me. 

“ You see I ’m prompt, Mr Walton,” he said. ** But, 
bless my soul, how ill you look ! ” 

Without answering him — for I was more angry with 
him than I ought to have been — I repeated — 

‘‘ Put that table down, I tell you.” 

They did so. 

•* Now,” I said, carry it back into the house.” 

** Why, sir ” interposed Mr Brownrigg, “ it *s all 
right” 

Yes,” I said, " as right as the devil would have it” 

“ I assure you, ssr, I have done everything according 

toUw.” 


THE CHURCH-RATE. 


339 


“ I not so sure of that. I believe I had the right 
to be chairman at the vestry-meeting ; but, instead of 
even letting me know, you took advantage of my ill- 
ness to hurry on matters to this shameful and wicked 
excess.” 

I did the poor man wrong in this, for I believe he 
had hurried things really to please me. His face had 
lengthened considerably by this time, and its rubicund 
hue declined. 

‘‘I did not think you would stand upon ceremony 
about it, sir. You never seemed to care for business.” 

“ If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly you 
ion’t stand upon ceremony.” 

‘‘I didn’t expect you would turn against your own 
churchwarden in the execution of his duty, sir,” he said 
in an offended tone. “It’s bad enough to have a 
meetin*-house in the place, without one’s own parson 
siding with t’other parson as won’t pay a lawful church- 
rate.” 

*‘I would have paid the church-rate for the whole 
parish ten times over before such a thing should have 
happened. I feel so disgraced, I am ashamed to look 
Mr Templeton in the face. Carry that table into the 
house again, directly.” 

“It’s my property, now,” interposed the broker. 

I Ve bought it of the churchwarden, and paid for it” 

I turned to Mr Brownrigg. 

" How much did he give you for it T’ I asked. 

"Twenty shillings,” returned he, sulkily, "and it 
won’t pay expenses.” 


340 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Twenty shillings ! ” I exclaimed ; “ for a table that 
cost three times as much at least! — What do you ex- 
pect to sell it for ? ” 

‘‘That’s my business,” answered the brokei. 

I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a 
half on the table, saying — 

“ per cent, will be, I think, profit enough even 
on such a transaction.” 

“ I did not offer you the table,” returned the broker. 
“ I am not bound to sell except I please, and at my 
own price.” 

“ Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. 
And if you carry away that table, I shall see what the 
law will do for me. I assure you I will prosecute you 
myself. You take up that money, or I will. It will 
go to pay counsel, I give you my word, if you do not 
take it to quench strife.” 

I stretched out my hand. But the broker was before 
me. Without another word, he pocketed the money, 
jumped into his cart with his man, and drove off, leav- 
ing the churchwarden and the parson standing at the 
door of the dissenting minister with his mahogany table 
on the path between them. 

“ Now, Mr Brownrigg,” I said, “ lend me a hand to 
carry this table in again.” 

He yielded, not graciously, — that could not be ex- 
pected, — but in silence. 

“ Oh I sir,” interposed young Tom, who had stood 
by during the dispute, “let me take it You're not 
able to lift it’* 


THl CHURCH-RATE. 


34 > 


“Nonsense! Tom. Keep away,” I said. “Ilisall 
the reparation I can make.” 

And so Mr Brownrigg and I blundered into the little 
parlour with our burden — not a great one, but I began 
to find myself failing. 

Mr Templeton sat in a Windsor chair in the middle 
of the room. Evidently the table had been carried 
away firom before himj leaving his position uncovered. 
The floor was strewed with the books which had lain 
Upon it. He sat reading an old folio, as if nothing had 
happened. But when we entered he rose. 

He was a man of middle size, about forty, with short 
black hair and overhanging bushy eyebrows. His mouth 
indicated great firmness, not unmingled with sweetness, 
and even with humour. He smiled as he rose, but 
looked embarrassed, glancing first at the table, then at 
me, and then at Mr Brownrigg, as if begging somebody 
to tell him what to say. But I did not leave him a 
moment in this perplexity. 

“ Mr Templeton,” I said, quitting the table, and hold- 
ing out my hand, “ I beg your pardon for myself and 
my friend here, my churchwarden” — Mr Brownrigg 
gave a grunt — “that you should have been annoyed 
like this. 1 have ” 

Mr Templeton interrupted me. 

“ I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me,' 
he said. “ On no other ground — ” 

“ I know it, I know it,” \ said, interrupting him in my 
turn. “ I beg your pardon ; and I have done my best 
to make amends for it Offences must come, you know, 


342 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Mr Templeton ; but I niist I have not incurred the woe 
that follows upon them by means of whom they come, 
for I knew nothing of it, and indeed was too ill ” 

Here my strength left me altogether, and I sat down. 
The room began to whirl round me, and I remembei 
fiOthing more till I knew that I was lying on a couch, 
with Mrs Templeton bathing my forehead, and Mi 
Templeton trying to get something into my mouth with 
a spoon. 

Ashamed to find myself in such circumstances, I tried 
to rise ; but Mr Templeton, laying his hand on mine 
said — 

‘*My dear sir, add to your kindness this day, by 
letting my wife and me minister to you.” 

Now, was not that a courteous speech? He went 
on — 

“Mr Brownrigg has gone for Dr Duncan, and will 
be back in a few moments. I beg you will not exert 
yourself.” 

I yielded and lay still. Dr Duncan came. His car- 
riage followed, and I was taken home. Before we 
started, I said to Mr Brownrigg — for I could not rest 
till I had said it — 

“ Mr Brownrigg, I spoke in heat when I came up to 
you, and I am sure I did you wrong. I am certain you 
had no improper motive in not making me acquainted 
with your proceedings. You meant no harm to me. 
But you did very wrong towards Mr Templeton. I will 
try to show you that when I am well again ; but ** 

“ But you mustn’t talk more now,” said Dr Duncaa 


THE CHURCH-RATE. 


343 


So I shook hands with Mr Brownrigg, and we parted 
I fear, from what I know ot my churchwarden, that he 
went home with the conviction that he had done per- 
fectly right ; and that the parson had made an apology 
for interfering with a churchwarden who was doing his 
best to uphold the dignity of Church and State. But 
perhaps I may be doing him wrong again. 

I went home to a week more of bed, and a lengthened 
process of recovery, during which many were the kind 
inquiries made after me by my friends, and amongst 
them by Mr Templeton. 

And here I may as well sketch the result of that 
strange introduction to the dissenting minister. 

After I was tolerably well again, I received a friendly 
letter from him one day, expostulating with me on the 
inconsistency of my remaining within the pale of the 
Established Church. The gist of the letter lay in these 
words : — 

“ I confess it perplexes me to understand how to 
reconcile your Christian and friendly behaviour to one 
whom most of your brethren would consider as much 
beneath their notice as inferior to them in social posi- 
tion, with your remaining the minister of a Church in 
vhich such enormities as you employed your private 
influence to counteract in my case, are not only pos- 
sible, but certainly lawful, and recognized by most ol 
its members as likewise expedient" 


To this I replied :• 


344 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ My dear Sir, — I do not like writing letters, espe- 
cially on subjects of importance. There are a thousand 
chances of misunderstanding. Whereas, in a personal 
interview, there is a possibility of controversy being 
hallowed by communion. Come and dine with me 
to-morrow, at any hour convenient to you, and make 
my apologies to Mrs Templeton for not inviting hei 
with you, on the ground that we want to have a long 
talk with each other without the distracting influence 
which even her presence would unavoidably occasion. 

** I am,” &c. &C. 

He accepted my invitation at once. During dinner 
we talked away, not upon indifferent, but upon the 
most interesting subjects — connected with the poor, and 
parish work, and the influence of the higher upon the 
lower classes of society. At length we sat down on 
opposite sides of the Are ; and as soon as Mrs Pearson 
had shut the door, I said, — 

** You ask me, Mr Templeton, in your very kind letter 
— ” and here I put my hand in my pocket to find it. 

“ I asked you,” interposed Mr Templeton, “ how you 
could belong to a Church which authorizes things oi 
which you yourself so heartily disapprove.” 

“ And I answer you,” I returned, “ that just to such 
a Church our Lord belonged.” 

“ I do not quite understand you.” 

“ Our Lord belonged to the Jewish Church." 

^ But ours is His Church.” 

** Yes. But principles remain the same. 1 speak ol 


THE CHUECH-EATB. 


34S 


Him as belonging to a Church. His conduct would be 
the same in the same circumstances, whatever Churcli 
He belonged to, because He would always do right 1 
want, if you will allow me, to show you the principU 
upon which He acted with regard to church-rates.” 

** Certainly. I beg your pardon for interrupting you.” 

" The Pharisees demanded a tribute, which, it is 
allowed, was for the support of the temple and its wor- 
ship. Our Lord did not refuse to acknowledge their 
authority, notwithstanding the many ways in which they 
had degraded the religious observances of the Jewish 
Church. He acknowledged himself a child of the 
Church, but said that, as a child. He ought to have 
been left to contribute as He pleased to the support 
of its ordinances, and not to be compelled after such 
a fashion.” 

“ There I have you,” exclaimed Mr Templeton. “ He 
said they were wrong to make the tribute, or church- 
rate, if it really was such, compulsory.” 

** I grant it : it is entirely wrong — a very unchristian 
proceeding. But our Lord did not therefore desert the 
Church, as you would have me do. He paid the money, 
lest He should offend. And not having it of His own, 
He had to ask His Father for it ; or, what came to the 
same thing, make a servant of His Father, namely, a 
fish in the sea of Galilee, bring Him the money. And 
tliere I have you, Mr Templeton. It is wrong to compel, 
and wrong to refuse, the payment of a church-rate. I 
do not say equally wrong : it is much worse to compel 
than to refuse.” 


34^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


‘‘You are very generous,” returned Mr Templeton. 
“ May I hope that you will do me the credit to believe 
that if I saw clearly that they were ti e same thing, I 
would not hesitate a moment to follow our Lord^s ex- 
ample.” 

“ I believe it perfectly. Therefore, however we may 
differ, we are in reality at no strife.” 

“ But is there not this difference, that our Lord was, 
as you say, a child of the Jewish Church, which was 
indubitably established by God? Now, if I cannot 
conscientiously belong to the so-called English Church, 
why should I have to pay church-rate or tribute ? ” 

“ Shall I tell you the argument the English Church 
might then use ? The Church might say, ‘ Then you 
are a stranger, and no child ; therefore, like the kings 
of the earth, we may take tribute of you.’ So you see 
it would come to this, that Dissenters alone should be 
compelled to pay church-rates.” 

We both laughed at this pushing of the argument to 
illegitimate conclusions. Then I resumed : 

“ But the real argument is that not for such faults 
should we separate from each other ; not for such faults, 
or any faults, so long as it is the repository of the trutli, 
should you separate from the Church.” 

“ I will yield the point when you can show me the 
same ground for believing the Church of England iht 
National Churchy appointed such by God, that I can 
show you, and you know already, for receiving the 
Jewish Church as the appointment of God” 

“ That would involve a long argument, upon which^ 


THE CHUECH-RATB. 


349 


though I have little doubt upon the matter myself, J 
nannot say I am prepared to enter at this moment 
Meantime, I would just ask you whether you are not 
sufficiently a child of the Church of England, having 
received from it a thousand influences for good, if in 
no other way, yet through your fathers, to find it no 
great hardship, and not very unreasonable, to pay a 
trifle to keep in repair one of the tabernacles in which 
our forefathers worshipped together, if, as I hope you 
will allow, in some imperfect measure God is worshipped, 
and the truth is preached in itl” 

‘‘ Most willingly would I pay the money. I object 
simply because the rate is compulsory.” 

“And therein you have our Lord’s example to the 
contrary.” 

A silence followed ; for I had to deal with an honest 
man, who was thinking. I resumed : — 

“A thousand difficulties will no doubt come up to 
be considered in the matter. Do not suppose I am 
anxious to convince you. I believe that our Father, 
our Elder Brother, and the Spirit that proceedeth from 
them, is teaching you, as I believe I too am being taught 
by the same. Why, then, should I be anxious to con- 
vince you of anything f Will you not in His good time 
come to see what He would have you see ? I am re- 
lieved to speak my mind, knowing He would have us 
5[)eak our minds to each other ; but I do not want to 
prosely^’ze. If you change your mind, you will probably 
do so on different grounds from any I give you, on 
grounds which show themselves in the course of your 


348 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


own search after the foundations of truth in regard 
perhaps to some other question altogether.” 

Again a silence followed. Then Mr Templeton 
spoke : — 

“ Don’t think I am satisfied,” he said, ** because I 
don’t choose to say anything more till I have thought 
about it. I think you are wrong in your conclusions 
about the Church, though surely you are right in think- 
ing we ought to have patience with each other. And 
now tell me true, Mr Walton, — I’m a blunt kind of 
man, descended from an old Puritan, one of Cromwell’s 
Ironsides, I believe, and I haven’t been to a university 
like you, but I ’m no fool either, I hope, — don’t be 
offended at my question ; wouldn’t you be glad to see 
me out of your parish now 1 ” 

I began to speak, but he went on. 

Don’t you regard me as an interloper now — one who 
has no right to speak because he does not belong to the 
Church r 

‘‘God forbid!” I answered. “If a word of mine 
would make you leave my parish to-morrow, I dare not 
say it. I do not want to incur the rebuke of our Lord 
— for surely the words ‘ Forbid him not ’ involved some 
rebuke. Would it not be a fearful thing that one soul, 
because of a deed of mine, should receive a less portion 
of elevation or comfort in his journey towards his home 1 
Are there not countless modes of saying the truth f You 
have some of them. I hope I have some. People will 
hear you who will not hear me. Preach to them in the 
^lamc and love of God, Mr Templeton. Speak that you 


THE CHURCH-RATE. 


349 


do know and testify that you have seen. You and 1 
will help each other, in proportion as we serve the 
Master. I only say that in separating from us you are 
in effect, and by your conduct, saying to us, ‘ Do not 
preach, for you follow not with us.’ I will not be guilty 
of the same towards you. Your fathers did the Church 
no end of good by leaving it. But it is time to unite 
now.” 

Once more followed a silence. 

“ If people could only meet, and look each other in 
the face,” said Mr Templeton at length, “ they might 
find there was not such a gulf between them as they had 
fancied.” 

And so we parted. 

Now I do not write all this for the sake of the church- 
rate question. I write it to commemorate the spirit in 
which Mr Templeton met me. For it is of consequence 
that two men who love their Master should recognize 
each that the other does so, and thereupon, if not before, 
should cease to be estranged because of difference of 
opinion, which surely, inevitable as offence, does not 
involve the same denunciation of woe. 

After this Mr Templeton and I found some oppor- 
tunities of helping each other. And many a time ere 
his death we consulted together about things that befell. 
Once he came to me about a legal difficulty in con- 
nexion with the deed of trust of his chapel ; and although 
1 could not help him myself, I directed him to such help 
as was thorough and cost him nothing. 

I need not say he never became a churchman, or that 


350 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I never expected he would. All his memories of a reli 
gvous childhood, all the sources of the influences which 
had refined and elevated him, were surrounded with 
other associations than those of the Church and her 
forms. The Church was his grandmother, not his 
mother, and he had not made any acquaintance with 
her till comparatively late in life. 

But while I do not say that his intellectual objections 
to the Church were less strong than they had been, I am 
sure that his feelings were moderated, even changed 
towards her. And though this may seem of no conse- 
quence to one who loves the Church more than the 
brotherhood, it does not seem of little consequence to 
me who love the Church because of the brotherhood of 
which it is the type and the restorer. 

It was long before another church-rate was levied in 
Marshmallows. And when the circumstance did take 
place, no one dreamed of calling on Mr Templeton for 
his share in it. But, having heard of it, he called him- 
self upon the churchwarden — Mr Brownrigg still — and 
offered the money cheerfully. And Mr Brownrigg re- 
fused to take it till he had consulted me I I told him to 
call on Mr Templeton, and say he would be much 
obliged to him for his contribution, and give him a 
receipt for it 


CHAPTER XVin. 

JUDY’S NEWS. 



ERHAPS my reader may be sufficiently inter* 
ested in the person, who, having once begun 
to tell his story, may possibly have allowed 
his feelings, in concert with the comfortable 
confidence afforded by the mask of namelessness, to run 
away with his pen, and so have babbled of himself more 
than he ought — may be sufficiently interested, I say, in 
my mental condition, to cast a speculative thought upon 
the state of my mind, during my illness, with regard to 
Miss Oldcastle and the stranger who was her mother’s 
guest at the Hall. Possibly, being by nature gifted, as 
I have certainly discovered, with more of hope than is 
usually mingled with the other elements composing the 
temperament of humanity, I did not suffer quite so 
much as some would have suffered during such an ill- 
ness. But I have reason to fear that when I was light- 
headed from fever, which was a not uncommon occur- 


35* ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


rence, especially in the early mornings during the worst 
of my illness — when Mrs Pearson had to sit up with me, 
and sometimes an old woman of the village who was 
generally called in upon such occasions — I may have 
talked a good deal of nonsense about Miss Oldcastle. 
For I remember that I was haunted with visions of mag- 
nificent conventual ruins which I had discovered, and 
which, no one seeming to care about them but myself, 
I was left to wander through at my own lonely will. 
Would I could see with the waking eye such a grandeur 
of Gothic arches and ‘‘ long-drawn aisles ” as then arose 
upon my sick sense ! Within was a labyrinth of passages 
in the walls, and ‘‘ long-sounding corridors,” and sudden 
galleries, whence I looked down into the great church 
aching with silence. Through these I was ever wander- 
ing, ever discovering new rooms, new galleries, new 
marvels of architecture; ever disappointed and ever 
dissatisfied, because I knew that in one room some 
vhere in the forgotten mysteries of the pile sat Ethelwyn 
reading, never lifting those sea-blue eyes of hers from 
the great volume on her knee, reading every word, 
slowly turning leaf after leaf; knew that she would sit 
there reading, till, one by one, every leaf in the huge 
volume was turned, and she came to the last and read it 
from top to bottom — down to the finis and the urn with 
a weeping willow over it ; when she would close the book 
willi a sigh, lay it down on the floor, rise and walk 
slowly away, and leave the glorious ruin dead to me as 
it had so long been to every one else ; knew that if I 
did not find her before that terrible last page was read, 


Judy’s nkws. 


5$3 


I should never find her at all ; but have to go wander- 
ing alone all my life through those dreary galleries and 
corridors, with one hope only left — that I might yet be- 
fore I died find the “ palace-chamber far apart,’' and see 
the read and forsaken volume lying on the floor wheie 
she had left it, and the chair beside it upon which she 
had sat so long waiting for some one in vain. 

And perhaps to words spoken under these impressions 
may partly be attributed the fact, which I knew nothing 
of till long afterwards, that the people of the village 
began to couple my name with that of Miss Oldcastle. 

When all this vanished from me in the returning wave 
of health that spread through my weary brain, I was yet 
left anxious and thoughtful. There was no one from 
whom I could ask any information about the family at 
the Hall, so that I was just driven to the best thing — to 
try to cast my care upon Him who cared for my care. 
How often do we look upon God as our last and feeblest 
resource! We go to Him because we have nowhere 
else to go. And then we learn that the storms of life 
have driven us, not upon the rocks, but into the desired 
haven ; that we have been compelled, as to the last re- 
maining, so to the best, the only, the central help, the 
causing cause of all the helps to which we had turned 
a.side as nearer and better. 

One day when, having considerably recovered from 
my second attack, I was sitting reading in my study, 
udio should be announced but my friend Judy ! 

“ Oh, dear Mr Walton, I am so sorry you have been 

«o ill! ” exclaimed the impulsive girl, taking my hand in 

z 


554 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


both of hers, and sitting down beside me. “ I haven*! 
had a chance of coming to see you before ; though we Ve 
always managed — I mean auntie and I — to hear about 
you. I would have come to nurse you, but it was no 
use thinking of it.” 

I smiled as I thanked her. 

“ Ah ! you think because I 'm such a tom-boy, that I 
couldn’t nurse you. I only wish I had had a chance of 
letting you see. I am so sorry for you ! ” 

“ But I ’m nearly well now, Judy, and I have been 
taken good care of.” 

“ By that frumpy old thing, Mrs Pearson, and ” 

** Mrs Pearson is a very kind woman, and an excellent 
nurse,” I said ; but she would not heed me. 

“ And that awful old witch, Mother Goose. She was 
enough to give you bad dreams all night she sat by you.” 

‘‘ I didn’t dream about Mother Goose, as you call her, 
Judy, I assure you. But now I want to hear how every- 
body is at the Hall.” 

“What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all?’* 

“ As many as you please to tell me about.” 

“ Well, grannie is gracious to everybody but auntie.** 

“ Why isn’t she gracious to auntie ? ** 

“ I don’t know. I only guess.” 

• Is your visitor gone ? ” 

“ Yes, long ago. Do you know, I think grannie wants 
auntie to marry him, and auntie doesn’t quite like it? 
But he’s very nice. He’s so funny! He’ll be back 
again soon, I daresay. I don’t like him — not so 
well as you by a whole half, Mr Walton. I wish you 


Judy’s news. 


35S 


would marry auntie ; but that would never do. It wouW 
drive grannie out of her wits.” 

To stop the strange girl, and hide some confusion, 1 
said : 

‘‘ Now tell me about the rest of them.^ 

‘‘ Sarah comes next She *s as white and as wolfy as 
ever. Mr Walton, I hate that woman. She walks like 
a cat. I am sure she is bad.” 

“ Did you ever think, Judy, what an awful thing it is 
to be bad ? If you did, I think you would be so sorry 
for her, you could not hate her.” 

At the same time, knowing what I knew now, and 
remembering that impressions can date from farther back 
than the memory can reach, I was not surprised to hear 
that Judy hated Sarah, though I could not believe that 
in such a child the hatred was of the most deadly de 
scription. 

“ I am afraid I must go on hating in the meantime,” 
said Judy. I wish some one would marry auntie, and 
turn Sarah away. But that couldn’t be, so long as 
grannie lives.” 

‘‘ How is Mr Stoddart 1 ” 

“ There now ! That 's one of the things auntie said I 
was to be sure to tell you.” 

“Then your aunt knew you were coming to see 
mel” 

“ Oh, yes, I told her. Not grannie, you know. — ^You 
mustn’t let it out” 

“ I shall be careful. How is Mr Stoddart, then?” 

“ Not well at all. He was taken ill before you, and 


356 AVNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


has been in bed and by the fireside ever since. Auntie 
doesn’t know what to do with him, he is so out of 
spirits.” 

If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him.” 

“ Thank you. I believe that ’s just what auntie 
wanted. He won’t like it at first, I daresay. But he ’ll 
come to, and you ’ll do him good. You do everybody 
good you come near.” 

“ I wish that were true, Judy. I fear it is not. What 
good did I ever do you, Judy?” 

Do me ! ” she exclaimed, apparently half angry at 
the question. Don’t you know I have been an altered 
character ever since I knew you ? ” 

And here the odd creature laughed, leaving me in 
absolute ignorance of how to interpret her. But pre- 
sently her eyes grew clearer, and I could see the slow 
film of a tear gathering. 

“ Mr Walton,” she said, “ I have been trying not to be 
selfish. You have done me that much good.” 

“ I am very glad, Judy. Don’t fo7get who can do you 
all good. There is One who can not only show you 
what is right, but can make you able to do and be what 
IS right. You don’t know how much you have got to 
learn yet, Judy; but there is that one Teacher ever 
ready to teach if you will only ask Him.” 

Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the 
carpet. She was thinking, though, I saw. 

“ Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncli 
was taken ill?” I asked, at length. 

“ Why, auntie, to be sure. Didn’t you heart” 


JUDY'S NIWS; 


357 


No,” I answered, turning almost sick at the idea of 
having been away from church for so many Sundays 
while she was giving voice and expression to the dear 
asthmatic old pipes. And I did feel very ready to mur- 
mur, like a spoilt child that had not had his way. Think 
of her there, and me here ! 

‘‘ Then,” I said to myself at last, “ it must have been 
she that played I know that my Redeemer livethy that last 
time I was in church ! And instead of thanking God 
for that, here I am murmuring that He did not give me 
more ! And this child has just been telling me that I 
have taught her to try not to be selfish. Certainly I 
should be ashamed of myself.” 

“ When was your uncle taken ill 1 ” 

“ I don’t exactly remember. But you will come and 
see him to-morrow 1 And then we shall see you too. 
For we are always out and in of his room just now.” 

I will come if Dr Duncan will let me. Perhaps he 
will take me in his carriage.” 

“ No, no. Don’t you come with him. Uncle can’t 
bear doctors. He never was ill in his life before, and 
he behaves to Dr Duncan just as if he had made him ill 
I wish I could send the carriage for you. But I can’t, 
yrou know.” 

Never mind, Judy. I shall manage somehow. — 
What is the name of the gentleman who was staying 
with you ? ” 

“ Don’t yon know 1 Captain George Everard. He 
would change his name to Oldca^stle, you know.” 

What a foolish pain, like a spear-thrust, they sen! 


35® ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


through me — those words spoken in such a taken-for 
granted way ! 

“ He *s a relation — on grannie’s side mostly, I believe. 
But I never could understand the explanation. What 
makes it harder is, that all the husbands and wives in 
our family, for a hundred and fifty years, have been more 
or less of cousins, or half-cousins, or second or third 
cousins. Captain Everard has what grandmamma calls 
a neat little property of his own from his mother, some 
where in Northumberland ; for he is only a third son, 
one of a class grannie does not in general feel very 
friendly to, I assure you, Mr Walton. But his second 
brother is dead, and the eldest something the 
ft>r the wear, as grannie says ; so that the captain comes 
just within sight of the coronet of an old uncle who 
ought to have been dead long ago. Just the match for 
auntie 1 ” 

“ But you say auntie doesn’t like him.” 

“ Oh ! but you know that doesn’t matter,” returned 
Judy, with bitterness. “What will grannie care for 
that 1 It ’s nothing to anybody but auntie, and she must 
get used to it. Nobody makes an)rthing of her.” 

It was only after she had gone that I thought how 
astounding it would have been to me to hear a girl ol 
her age show such an acquaintance with worldliness 
and scheming, had I not been personally so much con- 
cerned about one of the objects of her remarks. She 
certainly was a strange girl. But strange as she was it 
was a satisfaction to think that the aunt had such a 
friend and ally in her wild niece. Evidently she had 


JUDY*S NlWt. 


359 


inherited her father’s fearlessness ; and if only it should 
turn out that she had likewise inherited her mother’s 
firmness, she might render the best possible service to 
her aunt against the oppression of her wilful mother. 

‘‘ How were you able to get here to-day?” I asked, as 
she rose to go. 

“ Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. 
Auntie wouldn’t leave uncle.” 

“ They have been a good deal in London of late, have 
they not ? ” 

Yes. They say it ’s about money of auntie’s. But 
I don’t understand. T think it *s that grannie wants to 
make the captain marry her; for they sometimes see 
him when they go to I ondoo.** 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE INVALID. 



IHE following day being very fine, I walked 
to Oldcastle Hall; but I remember well 
how much slower I was forced to walk than 
I was willing. I found to my relief that 
Mrs Oldcastle had not yet returned. I was shown at 
once to Mr Stoddart’s library. There I found the two 
ladies in attendance upon him. He was seated by a 
splendid fire, for the autumn days were now chilly on 
the shady side, in the most luxurious of easy chairs, with 
his furred feet buried in the long hair of the hearth-rug. 
He looked worn and peevish. All the placidity of his 
countenance had vanished. The smooth expanse of 
his forehead was drawn into fifty wrinkles, like a sea 
over which the fretting wind has been blowing all night. 
Noi was it only suffering that his face expressed. He 
looked like a man who strongly suspected that he waa 
ill-used 



•••HK INVALID. 


$61 


After salutation, — 

“ You are well off, Mr Stoddart,** I said, “ to have 
two such nurses.” 

** They are very kind,” sighed the patient 

“You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mothei 
Goose instead, would you not, Mr Walton V* said Judy, 
her gray eyes sparkling with fun. 

“Judy, be quiet,” said the invalid, languidly and yet 
sharply. 

Judy reddened and was silent 

“ I am sorry to find you so unwell,” I said. 

“ Yes j I am very ill,” he returned. 

Aunt and niece rose and left the room qaietly. 

“ Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart ?” 

“ Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome 
death.” 

“ I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, 
that there is reason to apprehend more than a lingering 
illness,” I said — to try him, I confess. 

“ 1 hope not indeed,” he exclaimed angrily, sitting 
up in his chair. “ What right has Dr Duncan to talk 
of me so ?” 

“ To a friend, you know,” I returned, apologetically, 
“ who is much interested in your welfare.” 

“Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man 
belongs to you both by prescription.” 

“ For my part I would rather talk about religion to 
a whole man than a sick man. A sick man is not a 
wMe man. He is but part of a man, as it were, foi 
the time, and it is not so easy to tell what he can take.” 


;6a 


ANNALS OF A QUIBT NEIGHBOUBHOOD. 


“Thank yoa I am obliged to you for my new 
position in the social scale. Of the tailor species, I 
suppose.’^ 

I could not help wishing he were as far up as any 
man that does such needful honest work. 

“ My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a 
glance at the peculiar relation of the words whole and 
heair 

“ I do not find etymology interesting at present” 

“ Not seated in such a library as thisl” 

“No; I am ill.” 

Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he 
would, I resolved to make another trial. 

Do you remember how Ligarius, in Julius Casar^ 
discards his sickness 1 — 

** * I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand 
Any exploit worthy the name of honour.* ** 

“ I want to be well because I don’t like to be ill 
But what there is in this foggy, swampy world worth 
being well for, I ’m sure I haven’t found out yet” 

“ If you have not, it must be because you have never 
tried to find out But I’m not going to attack you 
when you are not able to defend yourself. We shall 
find a better time for that But can’t I do something 
foi youl Would you like me to read to you for half 
an hour?*’ 

“ No, thank you. The girls tire me out witfi reading 
to me. I hate the very sound of their voices.” 

“ I have got to-day’s Times in my pocket* 

“ I *ve heard all the news already.” 


THE INVALID. 


3 ^ 


** Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay." 

He made me no answer. I rose. He just let me 
take his hand, and returned my good morning as if 
there was nothing good in the world, least of all this 
same morning. 

I found the ladies in the outer room. Judy was on 
her knees on the floor occupied with a long row of 
books. How the books had got there I wondered ; but 
soon learned the secret which I had in vain asked of 
the butler on my first visit — namely, how Mr Stoddart 
reached the volumes arranged immediately under the 
ceiling, in shelves, as my reader may remember, that 
looked like beams radiating from the centre. For Judy 
rose from the floor, and proceeded to put in motion a 
mechanical arrangement concealed in one of the divi- 
sions of the book-shelves along the wall ; and I now 
saw that there were strong cords reaching from the 
ceiling, and attached to the shelf or rather long box 
sideways open which contained the books. 

“ Do take care, Judy,” said Ethelwyn. ‘‘You know 
it is very venturous of you to let that shelf down, when 
uncle is as jealous of his books as a hen of her chickens. 
I oughtn’t to have let you touch the cords.” 

“You couldn’t help it, auntie, dear; for I had the 
shelf half-way down before you saw me,” returned Judy, 
proceeding to raise the books to their usual position 
under the ceiling. 

But in another moment, either from Judy’s awkward- 
ness, or from the gradual decay and final fracture of 
some cord, down came the whole shelf with a thunder 


364 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOODl 


ing noise, and the books were scattered hither and thithef 
in confusion about the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing in 
dismay, and Judy had built up her face into a defiant 
look, when the door of the inner room opened and Mr 
Stoddart appeared. His brow was already flushed ; but 
when he saw the condition of his idols, (for the lust of 
the eye had its full share in his regard for his books,) he 
broke out in a passion to which he could not have given 
way bat for the weak state of his health. 

" How dare you 1” he said, with terrible emphasis on 
the word dare, “ Judy, I beg you will not again show 
yourself in my apartment till I send for you.” 

And then,” said Judy, leaving the room, “ I am not 
in the least likely to be otherwise engaged.” 

“ I am very sorry, uncle,” began Miss Oldcastle. 

But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged 
the door behind him. So Miss Oldcastle and I were 
left standing together amid the ruins. 

She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. 
She smiled in return. 

“ I assure you,” she said, “ uncle is not a bit like 
himself.” 

“ And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him 
no good,— only made him more irritable,” I said. “ But 
he will be sorry when he comes to himself, and so we 
must take the reversion of his repentance now, and think 
nothing more of the matter than if he had already said 
he was sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, 
for one, must not be too hard upon my unfortunate 
neighbour.” 


THE INVALID. 


365 


** Tliank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged ta 
you for taking my uncle’s part. He has been very good 
to me; and that dear Judy is provoking sometimes. T 
am afraid I help to spoil her; but you would hardly 
believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she 
is to me — ^with all her waywardness.” 

‘‘ I think I understand Judy,” I replied; “and I shall 
be more mistaken than I am willing to confess I have 
ever been before, if she does not turn out a very fine 
woman. The marvel to me is that with all the various 
influences amongst which she is placed here, she is not 
really, not seriously, spoiled after all. I assure you I 
have the greatest regard for, as well as confidence in, 
my friend Judy.” 

Ethelwyn — Miss Oldcastle, I should say — gave me 
such a pleased look that I was well recompensed — if 
justice should ever talk of recompense — for my defence 
of her niece. 

“ Will you come with me 1” she said ; “ for I fear our 
talk may continue to annoy Mr Stoddart. His hearing 
is acute at all times, and has been excessively so since 
his illness.” 

“ I am at your service,” I returned, and followed her 
from the room. 

“ Are you still as fond of the old quarry as you used 
to be. Miss Oldcastle 1 ” I said, as we caught a glimpse 
of it from the window of a long passage we were going 
through. 

“ I think I am. I go there most days. I have not 
been to-day, though. Would you like to go downt” 


366 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Very much,” I said. 

‘‘ Ah ! I forgot, though. You must not go ; it is not 
a fit place for an invalid.” 

“ I cannot call myself an invalid now.” 

“Your face, I am sorry to say, contradicts your 
words.” 

And she looked so kindly at me, that I almost broke 
out into thanks for the mere look. 

“ And indeed,” she went on, “ it is too damp down 
there, not to speak of the stairs.” 

By this time we had reached the little room in which 
I was received the first time I visited the Hall. There 
we found Judy. 

“ If you are not too tired already, I should like to 
show you my little study. It has, I think, a better view 
than any other room in the house,” said Miss Oldcastle. 

“ I shall be delighted,” I replied. 

“ Come, Judy,” said her aunt 

“ You don’t want me, I am sure, auntie.” 

“ I do, Judy, really. You mustn’t be cross to us be- 
cause uncle has been cross to you. Uncle is not well, 
you know, and isn’t a bit like himself ; and you know 
you should not have meddled with his machinery.” 

And Miss Oldcastle put her arm round Judy, and 
kissed her. Whereupon Judy jumped from her seat, 
threw her book down, and ran to one of the several 
doors that opened from the room. This disclosed a 
little staircase, almost like a ladder, only that it wound 
about, up which we climbed, and reached a charm- 
ing little room, whose window looked down upon the 


THE INVALID. 


3^7 


Bishop’s Basin, glimmering slaty through the tops of the 
trees between. It was panelled in small panels of dark 
oak, like the room below, but with more of carving. 
Consequently it was sombre, and its sombreness was 
unrelieved by any mirror. I gazed about me with a 
kind of awe. I would gladly have carried away the re- 
membrance of everything and its shadow. — ^Just opposite 
the window was a small space of brightness formed by 
the backs of nicely-bound books. Seeing that these 
attracted my eye — 

“ Those are almost all gifts from my uncle,” said Miss 
Oldcastle. He is really very kind, and you will not 
think of him as you have seen him to-day I ” 

“ Indeed I will not,” I replied. 

My eye fell upon a small pianoforte. 

“ Do sit down,” said Miss Oldcastle. — “ You have 
been very ill, and I could do nothing for you who have 
been so kind to me.” 

She spoke as if she had wanted to say this. 

I only wish I had a chance of doing anything for 
you,” I said, as I took a chair in the window. But if 
I had done all I ever could hope to do, you have repaid 
me long ago, I think.” 

“ How t I do not know what you mean, Mr Walton. 
I have never done you the least service.” 

“ Tell me first, did you play the organ in church that 
afternoon when — after — before I was taken ill — I mean 
the same day you had — a friend with you in the pew ip 
the morning 1” 

I daresay my voice was as irregular as my construe 


.^6^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOIA 


tion. I ventured just one glance. Her face was flushed. 
But she answered me at once. 

« I did.” 

“ Then I am in your debt more than yc« know or 1 
can tell you.” 

“ Why, if that is all, I have played the oigan every 
Sunday since uncle was taken ill,” she said, smiling. 

I know that now. And I am very glad I did not 
know it till I was better able to bear the disappoint 
ment. But it is only for what I heard that I mean now 
to acknowledge my obligation. Tell me. Miss Oldcastle, 
^what is the most precious gift one person can give 
another 1 ” 

She hesitated; and I, fearing to embanass her, an- 
swered for her. 

“ It must be something imperishable, — s:,mething 
which in its own nature is. If instead of a gem, or even 
of a flower, we could cast the gift of a lovely thought 
into the heart of a friend, that would be giving, as the 
angels, I suppose, must give. But you did more and 
better for me than that. I had been troubled all the 
morning; and you made me know that my Redeemei 
liveth. I did not know you were playing, mind, though 
I felt a difference. You gave me more trust in God ; 
and what other gift so great could one give ? I think 
that last impression, just as I was taken ill, must have 
helped me through my illness. Often when I was most 
oppressed, * I know that my Redeemer liveth * would rise 
up in the troubled air of my mind, and sung by a voice 


THE INVALID. 


36f 


which, though I never heard you sing, I never questioned 
to be yours.” 

She turned her face towards me : those sea-blue eyes 
were full of tears. 

“ I was troubled myself,” she said, with a faltering 
voice, “ when I sang — I mean played — that. I am so 
glad it did somebody good ! I fear it did not do me 
much. — I will sing it to you now, if you like.” 

And she rose to get the music. But that instant 
Judy, who, I then found, had left the room, bounded 
into it, with the exclamation, — 

** Auntie, auntie ! here ’s grannie ! ” 

Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embar- 
rassed, as if I had been caught in something underhand. 

“ Is she come in 1 ” asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to 
speak with indifference. 

“ She is just at the door, — must be getting out of the 
fly now. What s/ia// we do 1 ” 

“ What do you mean, Judy?” said her aunt 
“ Well you know, auntie, as well as I do, that grannie 
will look as black as a thunder-cloud to find Mr Walton 
here ; and if she doesn’t speak as loud, it will only be 
because she can’t / don’t care for myself, but you 
know on whose head the storm will fall. Do, dear Mr 
Walton, come down the back-stair. Then she won’t be 
a bit the wiser. I ’ll manage it all.” 

Here was a dilemma for me ; either to bring suffering 
on her, to save whom I would have borne any pain, or 
to creep out of the house as if 1 were and ought to b# 

2 A 


370 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


ashamed of myself. I believe that had I been in any 
other relation to my fellows, I would have resolved at 
once to lay myself open to the peculiarly unpleasant re- 
proach of sneaking out of the house, rather than that 
she should innocently suffer for my being innocently 
there. But I was a clergyman ; and I felt, more than I 
had ever felt before, that therefore I could not risk even 
the appearance of what was mean. Miss Oldcastle, 
however, did not leave it to me to settle the matter. All 
that I have just written had but flashed through my 
mind when she said : — 

“Judy, for shame to propose such a thing to Mr 
Walton ! I am very soriy that he may chance to have 
an unpleasant meeting with mamma ; but we can’t help 
it. Come, Judy, we will show Mr Walton out together.*' 

“ It wasn’t for Mr Walton’s sake,” returned Judy, 
pouting. “ You are very troublesome, auntie dear. Mr 
Walton, she is so hard to take care of! and she’s worse 
since you came. I shail have to give her up some day. 
Do be generous, Mr Walton, and take my side — that is, 
auntie’s.” 

“ I am afraid, Judy, I must thank your aunt for taking 
the part of my duty against my inclination. But this 
kindness, at least,” I said to Miss Oldcastle, “ I can 
never hope to return.” 

It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed 
that I had made it. 

“ All obligations are not burdens to be got rid of, are 
they t ” she replied, with a sweet smile on such a pale 
troubled face, that I was more moved for her, delibep 


THE INVALID. 


371 


ately handing her over to the torture for the truth’s sake, 
than I care definitely to confess. 

Thereupon, Miss Oldcastle led the way down the 
stairs, I followed, and Judy brought up the rear. The 
affair was not so bad as it might have been, inasmuch 
as, meeting the mistress of the house in no penetralia of 
the same, I insisted on going out alone, and met Mrs 
Oldcastle in the hall only. She held out no hand to 
greet me. I bowed, and said I was sorry to find Mr 
Stoddart so far from well. 

“ I fear he is far from well,” she returned ; “ certainly 
in my opinion too ill to receive visitors.” 

So saying, she bowed and passed on. I turned and 
walked out, not ill-pleased, as my readers will believe, 
with my visit 

From that day I recovered rapidly, and the next Sun- 
day had the pleasure of preaching to my flock; Mr 
Aikin, the gentleman already mentioned as doing duty 
for me, reading prayers. I took for my subject one of 
our Lord’s miracles of healing, I forget which now, and 
tried to show my people that all healing and all kinds of 
healing come as certainly and only from His hand as 
those instances in which He put forth His bodily hand 
and touched the diseased, and told them to be whole. 

And as they left the church the organ played, ** Com- 
fort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.” 

I tried hard to prevent my new feelings from so filling 
my mind as to make me fail of my duty towards my 
flock. I said to myself, “ Let me be the more gentle, 
the more honourable, ths more tender, towards these my 


^7* ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


brothers and sisters, forasmuch as they are her brothers 
and sisters too.” I wanted to do my work the bettci 
that I loved her. 

Thus week after week passed, with little that I can 
remember worthy of record. I seldom saw Miss Old 
castle, and during this period never alone. True, she 
played the organ still, for Mr Stoddart continued too 
unwell to resume his ministry of sound, but I never 
made any attempt to see her as she came to or went 
from the organ-loft. I felt that I ought not, or at least 
that it was better not, lest an interview should trouble 
my mind, and so interfere with my work, which, if my 
calling meant anything real, was a consideration of vital 
import. But one thing I could not help noting — that 
she seemed, by some intuition, to know the music I 
liked best ; and great help she often gave me by so up- 
lifting my heart upon the billows of the organ-harmony, 
that my thinking became free and harmonious, and I 
spoke, as far as my own feeling was concerned, like one 
upheld on the unseen wings of ministering cherubim. 
How it might be to those who heard me, or what the 
\ alue of the utterance in itself might be, I cannot tell. 
I only speak of my own feelings, I say. 

Does my reader wonder why I did not yet make any 
further attempt to gain favour in the lady’s eyes 1 He 
will see, if he will think for a moment. First of all, I 
could not venture until she had seen more of me ; and 
how to enjoy more of her society while her mother was 
so unfriendly, both from instinctive dislike to me, and 
because of the offenoo I had given her more than oncc^ 


THE INVALID. 


373 


I did not know ; for I feared that to call oftener might* 
only occasion measures upon her part to prevent me 
from seeing her daughter at all; and I could not tell 
how far such measures might expedite the event I most 
dreaded, or add to the discomfort to which Miss Old* 
castle was already so much exposed. Meantime I 
heard nothing of Captain Everard; and the comfort 
that flowed from such a negative source was yet of a 
very positive character. At the same time — will my 
reader understand me 1 — I was in some measure deterred 
from making further advances by the doubt whether her 
favour for Captain Everard might not be greater than 
Judy had represented it. For I had always shrunk, I 
can hardly say with invincible dislike, for I had never 
tried to conquer it, from rivalry of every kind : it was, 
somehow, contrary to my nature. Besides, Miss Old- 
castle was likely to be rich some day — apparently had 
money of her own even now; and was it a weakness? 
was it not a weakness? — I cannot tell — I writhed at 
the thought of being supposed to marry for money, and 
being made the object of such remarks as, “Ah! you 
see ! That ’s the way with the clergy ! They talk about 
poverty and faith, pretending to despise riches and to 
trust in God; but Just put money in their way, and 
what chance will a poor girl have beside a rich one ! 
It ’s all very well in the pulpit. It ’s their business te 
talk so. But does one of them believe what he says? 
or, at least, act upon it ?” I think I may be a little 
excused for the sense of creeping cold that passed over 
me at the thought of such remarks as these, accom- 


374 ANNALS OF A. QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


panied by compressed lips and down-drawn comers of 
the mouth, and reiterated nods of the head of knowing- 
ness. But I mention this only as a repressing influence, 
to which I certainly should not have been such a fool 
as to yield, had I seen the way otlierwise clear. For a 
man by showing how to use money, or rather simply by 
using money aright, may do more good than by refusing 
to possess it, if it comes to him in an entirely honour- 
able way, that is, in such a case as mine, merely as an 
accident of his history. But I was glad to feel pretty 
sure that if I should be so blessed as to marry Miss 
Oldcastle — which at the time whereof I now write, 
seemed far too gorgeous a castle in the clouds ever to 
descend to the earth for me to enter it — the poor of my 
own people would be those most likely to understand 
my position and feelings, and least likely to impute to 
me worldly motives, as paltry as they are vulgar, and 
altogether unworthy of a true man. 

So the time went on. I called once or twice on Mr 
Stoddart, and found him, as I thought, better. But he 
would not allow that he was. Dr Duncan said he was 
better, and would be better still, if he would only 
believe it and exert himself. 

He continued in the same strangely irritable humour 


CHAPTER XX. 


MOOD AND WILL. 

INTER came apace. When we look towardi 
^ winter from the last borders of autumn, it 

seems as if we could not encounter it, and 
as if it never would go over. So does 
threatened trouble of any kind seem to us as we look 
forward upon its miry ways from the last borders of 
the pleasant greensward on which we have hitherto been 
walking. But not only do both run their course, but 
each has its own alleviations, its own pleasures ; and 
very marvellously does the healthy mind lit itself to the 
new circumstances; while to those who will bravely 
take up their burden and bear it, asking no more 
questions than just, “ Is this my burden a thousand 
ministrations of nature and life will come with gentle 
comfortings. Across a dark verdUreless field will blow 
a wind through the heart of the winter which will wake 
ia the patient mind not a memoiy merely, but a pro 


376 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOn 


phecy of the spring, with a glimmer of crocus, or snow^ 
drop, or primrose ; and across the waste of tiied en 
deavour will a gentle hope, coming he knows not 
whence, breathe springlike upon the heart of the man 
around whom life looks desolate and dreary. Well do 
I remember a friend of mine telling me once — he was 
then a labourer in the field of literature, who had not 
yet begun to earn his penny a day, though he worked 
hard — telling me how once, when a hope that had kept 
him active for months was suddenly quenched — a book 
refused on which he had spent a passion of labour — 
the weight of money that must be paid and could not 
be had, pressing him down like the coffin-lid that had 
lately covered the on/y friend to whom he could have 
applied confidently for aid — telling me, I say, how he 
stood at the comer of a London street, with the rain 
dripping black from the brim of his hat, the dreariest of 
atmospheres about him in the closing afternoon of the 
City, when the rich men were going home, and the 
poor men who worked for them were longing to follow ; 
and how across this waste came energy and hope into 
his bosom, swelling thenceforth with courage to fight, 
and yield no ear to suggested failure. And the stoiy 
would not be complete — though it is for the fact of the 
arrival of unexpected and apparently unfounded hope 
that I tell it — if I did not add, that, in the morning, 
his wife gave him a letter which their common trouble 
of yesterday had made her forget, and which had lain 
with its black border all night in the darkness un- 
opened, waiting to tell him how the vanished friend had 


MOOD AND WILL. 


377 


not forgotten him on her death-bed, but had left him 
enough to take him out of all those difficulties, and give 
him strength and time to do far better work than the 
book which had failed of birth. — Some of my readers 
may doubt whether I am more than “ a wandering 
voice,” but whatever I am, or may be thought to be, 
my friend’s story is true. 

And all this has come out of the winter that I, in 
the retrospect of my history, am looking fonvard to. 
It came, with its fogs, and dripping boughs, and sodden 
paths, and rotting leaves, and rains, and skies of weary 
gray; but also with its fierce red suns, shining aslant 
upon sheets of manna-like hoarfrost, and delicate ice- 
films over prisoned waters, and those white falling 
chaoses of perfect forms — called snow-storms — those 
confusions confounded of infinite symmetries. 

And when the hard frost came, it brought a friend to 
my door. It was Mr Stoddart. * 

He entered my room with something of the counten- 
ance Naaman must have borne, after his flesh had come 
again like unto the flesh of a little child. He did not 
look ashamed, but his pale face looked humble and dis- 
tressed. Its somewhat self-satisfied placidity had van- 
ished, and instead of the diffused geniality which was its 
Usual expression, it now showed traces of feeling as well 
as plain signs of suffering. I gave him as warm a wel- 
come as I could, and having seated him comfortably by 
the fire, and found that he would take no refreshment, 
began to chat about the day’s news, for I had just been 
reading the newspaper. But he showed no interest be^ 


378 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


yond what the merest politeness required. I would try 
something else. 

** The cold weather, which makes so many invalids 
creep into bed, seems to have brought you out into the 
air, Mr Stoddart,” I said. 

‘‘ It has revived me, certainly.*’ 

“ Indeed, one must believe that winter and cold are 
as beneficent, though not so genial, as summer and its 
warmth. Winter kills many a disease and many a nox- 
ious influence. And what is it to have the fresh green 
leaves of spring instead of the everlasting brown of some 
countries which have no winter ! ” 

I talked thus, hoping to rouse him to conversation, 
and I was successful 

“ I feel just as if I were coming out of a winter. 
Don’t you think illness is a kind of human winter 1 ” 
Certainly — more or less stormy. With some a win- 
ter of snow and hail and piercing winds ; with others of 
black frosts and creeping fogs^ with now and then a 
glimmer of the sun.” 

“ The last is more like mine. I feel as if I had been 
in a wet hole in the earth.” 

‘‘ And many a man,” I went on, ‘‘ the foliage of whose 
character had been turning brown and seared and dry, 
rattling rather than rustling in the faint hot wind of even 
fortunes, has come out of the winter of a weary illness 
w4(h the fresh delicate buds of a new life bursting from 
the sim-dried bark.” 

“ I wish it would be so with me. I know you meaa 
me. But I don’t feel my green leaves coming.” 


MOOD AND WILL. 


379 


** Facts are not always indicated by feelings.” 

Indeed, I hope not ; nor yet feelings indicated by 
facts.” 

** I do not quite understand you.” 

“Well, Mr Walton, I will explain myself. I have 
come to tell you how sorry and ashamed I am that I 
behaved so badly to you every time you came to see 
me.” 

“ Oh, nonsense I ” I said. “ It was your illness, not 
you.” 

“ At least, my dear sir, the facts of my behaviour did 
not really represent my feelings towards you.” 

“ I know that as well as you do. Don’t say another 
word about it. You had the best excuse for being cross ; 
I should have had none for being offended.” 

“ It was only the outside of me.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I acknowledge it heartily.” 

“But that does not settle the matter between me and 
myself, Mr Walton; although, by your goodness, it 
settles it between me and you. It is humiliating to 
think that illness should so completely ‘ overcrow ’ me, 
that I am no more myself — lose my hold, in fact, of 
what I call me — so that I am almost driven to doubt 
my personal identity.” 

“ You are fond of theories, Mr Stoddart — perhaps a 
little too much so.” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Will you listen to one of mine I • 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ It seems to me sometimes — I know It is a paitUI 


3So ANNALS OF A. QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


representation — as if life were a conflict between the 
inner force of the spirit, which lies in its faith in the 
unseen — and the outer force of the world, which lies in 
the pressure of everything it has to show us. The mate- 
rial, operating upon our senses, is always asserting its 
existence ; and if our inner life is not equally vigorous, 
we shall be moved, urged, what is called actuated, from 
without, whereas all our activity ought to be from within. 
But sickness not only overwhelms the mind, but, vitiat- 
ing all the channels of the senses, causes them to repre- 
sent things as they are not, of which misrepresentations 
the presence, persistency, and iteration seduce the man 
to act from false suggestions instead of from what he 
knows and believes.” 

“ Well, I understand all that But what use am I to 
make of your theory ] ” 

** I am delighted, Mr Stoddart, to hear you put the 
question. That is always the point — The inward holy 
garrison, that of faith, which holds by the truth, by 
sacred facts, and not by appearances, must be strength- 
ened and nourished and upheld, and so enabled to 
resist the onset of the powers without. A fiiend’s re- 
monstrance may appear an unkindness — a friend’s jest 
an unfeelingness — a friend’s visit an intrusion ; nay, to 
come to higher things, during a mere headache it will 
appear as if there was no truth in the vorld, no reality 
but that of pain anyw^here, and nothing to be desired 
but deliverance from it. But all such impressions caused 
from without — for, remember, the body and its inner- 
most experiences are only outside of the man — have to bf 


MOOD' AND WILL. 


381 


met by the inner confidence of the spirit, restiiig in God 
and resisting every impulse to act according to that 
which appears to it instead of that which it believes 
Hence, Faith is thus allegorically represented : but 1 
had better give you Spenser’s description of her — Here 
is the ‘ Fairy Queen ’ : — 

* She was arrayed all in lily white, 

And in her right hand bore a cup of gold. 

With wine and water filled up to the height, 

In which a serpent did himself enfoH, 

That horror made to all that did behold ; 

But she no whit did change her constant mood.* 

This serpent stands for the dire perplexity of things 
about us, at which yet Faith will not blench, acting 
according to what she believes, and not what shows 
itself to her by impression and appearance.” 

I admit all that you say,” returned Mr Stoddart. 
“ But still the practical conclusion — which I understand 
to be, that the inward garrison must be fortified — is 
considerably incomplete unless we buttress it with the 
final How, How is it to be fortified 1 For, 

‘ I have as much of this in art as you, 

But yet my nature could not bear it so.* 

(You see I read Shakespeare as well as you, Mr Walton.) 
I daresay, from a certain inclination to take the opposite 
side, and a certain dislike to the dogmatism of the 
clergy — I speak generally — I may have appeared to you 
indifferent, but I assure you that I have laboured much 
to withdraw my mind from the influence of money, and 
ambition, and pleasure, and to turn it to the contempla- 


382 ANNALS OF A QUIET N EIGHBOUR BOOD. 


tion of spiritual things. Yet on the first attack of a 
depressing illness I cease to be a gentleman, I am rude 
to ladies who do their best and kindest to serve me, and 
I talk to the friend who comes to cheer and comfort me 
as if he were an idle vagrant who wanted to sell me a 
worthless book with the recommendation of the pretence 
that he wrote it himself. Now that I am in my right 
mind, I am ashamed of myself, ashamed that it should 
be possible for me to behave so, and humiliated yet 
besides that I have no ground of assurance that, should 
my illness return to-morrow, I should not behave in the 
same manner the day after. I want to be always in my 
right mind. When I am not, I know I am not, and yet 
yield to the appearance of being.” 

** I understand perfectly what you mean, for I fancy 
I know a little more of illness than you do. Shall I 
tell you where I think the fault of your self-training 
lies?” 

“That is just what I want The things which it 
pleased me to contemplate when I was well, gave me 
no pleasure when I was ill. Nothing seemed the same.” 

“ If we were always in a right mood, there would be 
no room for the exercise of the will We should go by 
our mood and inclination only. But that is by the by. 
— Wliere you have been wrong is — that you have sought 
to influence your feelings only by thought and argument 
with yourself— and not also by contact with your fellows. 
Besides the ladies of whom you have spoken, I think 
you have hardly a friend in this neighbourhood but 
myself One friend cannot afford you half experience 


MOOD AND WILL. 


383 


enough to teach you the relations of life and of human 
needs. At best, under such circumstances, you can only 
nave right theories : practice for realising them in your- 
self is nowhere. It is no more possible for a man in 
the present day to retire from his fellows into the cave 
of his religion, and thereby leave the world of his own 
faults and follies behind, than it was possible for the 
eremites of old to get close to God in virtue of declining 
the duties which their very birth of human father and 
mother laid upon them. I do not deny that you and 
the eremite may both come nearer to God, in virtue ot 
whatever is true in your desires and your worship ; ‘ but 
if a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how 
can he love God whom he hath not seenT — which 
surely means to imply at least that to love our neigh- 
bour is a great help towards loving God. How this love 
is to come about without intercourse, I do not see. And 
how without this love we are to bear up from within 
against the thousand irritations to which, especially in 
sickness, our unavoidable relations with humanity will 
expose us, I cannot tell either.” 

“ But,” returned Mr Stoddart, “ I had had a true 
regard for you, and some friendly communication with 
you. If human intercourse were what is required in my 
case, how should I fail just with respect to the only man 
with whom I bad held such intercourse?” 

‘‘ Because the relations in which you stood with me 
were those of the individual, not of the race. You like 
me, because I am fortunate enough to please you — tu 
l>e a gentlemani I hope — to be a man of some education, 


384 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIOHEOURHOOD, 


and capable of understanding, or at least docile enough 
to try to understand, what you tell me of your plans and 
pursuits. But you do not feel any relation to me on the 
ground of my humanity — that God made me, and there- 
fore I am your brother. It is not because we grow out 
of the same stem, but merely because my leaf is a little 
like your own that you draw to me. Our Lord took on 
Him the nature of man : you will only regard your indi- 
vidual attractions. Disturb your liking and your love 
vanishes.” 

“ You are severe.” 

“ 1 don’t mean really vanishes, but disappears foi 
:he time. Yet you will confess you have to wait till, 
somehow, you know not how, it comes back again — of 
itself, as it were.” 

“ Yes, I confess. To my sorrow, I find it so.” 

“ Let me tell you the truth, Mr Stoddart. You seem 
to me to have been hitherto only a dilettante or amateur 
in spiritual matters. Do not imagine I mean a hypo- 
crite. Very far from it. The word amateur itself sug 
gests a real interest, though it may be of a superficial 
nature. But in religion one must be all there. You 
seem to me to have taken much interest in unusual 
foims of theory, and in mystical speculations, to which 
in themselves I make no objection. But to be content 
with those, instead of knowing God himself, or to sub- 
stitute a general amateur friendship towards the race for 
ihe love of your neighbour, is a mockery which w’U 
always manifest itself to an honest mind like yours 1 ^ 
such failiure and disappointment in your own character 


MOOD AND WILL. 


38s 


as you are now lamenting, if not indeec in some mode 
far more alarming, because gross and terrible.” 

** Am I to understand you, then, that intercourse with 
one’s neighbours ought to take the place of meditation V’ 

“ By no means : but ought to go side by side with it, 
if you would have at once a healthy mind to judge and 
the means of either verifying your speculations or dis- 
covering their falsehood.’ 

‘‘ But where am I to find such friends besides yoursell 
with whom to hold spiritual communion 1 ” 

“ It is the communion of spiritual deeds, deeds ol 
justice, of mercy, of humility — the kind word, the cup 
of cold water, the visitation in sickness, the lending of 
money — not spiritual conference or talk, that I mean ; 
the latter will come of itself where it is natural. You 
would soon find that it is not only to those whose spiri- 
tual windows are of the same shape as your own that 
you are neighbour : there is one poor man in my con- 
gregation who knows more — practically, I mean, too — 
of spirituality of mind than any of us. Perhaps you 
could not teach him much, but he could teach you. At 
all events, our neighbours are just those round about us. 
And the most ignorant man in a little place like Marsh- 
mallows, one like you with leisure ought to know and 
understand, and have some good influence upon : he is 
your brother whom you are bound to care for and elevate 
— 1 do not mean socially, but really, in himself — if it be 
possible. You ought at least to get into some simple 
human relation with him, as you would with the young- 
est and most ignorant of your brothers and sisters bom 


386 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


of the same father and mother; approaching him, not 
with pompous lecturing or fault-finding, still less with 
that abomination called condescension, but with the 
humble service of the elder to the younger, in whatever 
he may be helped by you without injury to him. Never 
was there a more injurious mistake than that it is the 
business of the clergy only to have the care of souls.” 

“ But that would be endless. It would leave me no 
time for myselfi” 

“ Would that be no time for yourself spent in leading 
a noble, Christian life ; in verifying the words of our 
Lord by doing them; in building your house on the 
rock of action instead of the sands of theory ; in widen- 
ing your own being by entering into the nature, thoughts, 
feelings, even fancies of those around you! In such 
intercourse you would find health radiating into your 
own bosom; healing sympathies springing up in the 
most barren acquaintance; channels opened for the 
in-rush of truth into your own mind ; and opportunities 
afforded for the exercise of that self-discipline, the lack 
of which led to the failures which you now bemoan. 
Soon then would you have cause to wonder how much 
some of your speculations had fallen into the background, 
simply because the truth, showing itself grandly true, 
had so filled and occupied your mind that it left no 
room for anxiety about such questions as, while secured 
in the interest all reality gives, were yet dwarfed by the 
side of it Nothing, I repeat, so much as humble min- 
istration to your neighbours, will help you to that perfect 
love of God which casteth out fear ; nothing but the love 


MOOD AND WILL. 


3«7 


of God — that God revealed in Christ — will make you 
able to love your neighbour aright; and the Spirit of 
God, which alone gives might for any good, will by these 
loves, which are life, strengthen you at last to believe in 
the light even in the midst of darkness; to hold the 
resolution formed in health when sickness has altered 
the appearance of everything around you; and to feel 
tenderly towards your fellow, even when you yourself 
are plunged in dejection or racked with pain. — But,” I 
said, “ I fear I have transgressed the bounds of all pro- 
priety by enlarging upon this matter as I have done. 1 
can only say I have spoken in proportion to my feeling 
of its weight and truth.” 

“ I thank you heartily,” returned Mr Stoddart, rising. 
‘‘And I promise you at least to think over what you 
have been saying — I hope to be in my old place in the 
organ-loft next Sunday.” 

So he was. And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with 
her mother. Nor did she go any more to Addicehead 
to church. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. 

S the winter went on, it was sad to look on 
the evident though slow decline of Catherine 
Weir. It seemed as if the dead season was 
dragging her to its bosom, to lay her among 
the leaves of past summers. She was still to be found 
in the shop, or appeared in it as often as the bell sus- 
pended over the door rang to announce the entrance of 
a customer; but she was terribly worn, and her step 
indicated much weakness. Nor had the signs of rest- 
less trouble diminished as these tide-marks indicated 
ebbing strength. There was the same diy fierce fire in 
her eyes; the same forceful compression of her lips; 
the same evidences of brooding over some one absorb- 
ing thought or feeling. She seemed to me, and to Dr 
Duncan as well, to be dying of resentment. Would 
nobody do anything for her ? I thought Would not her 
finther help her 1 He had got more gentle now ; whence 



THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. 389 


I had reason to hope that Christian principles and feel- 
ings had begun to rise and operate in him ; while surely 
the influence of his son must, by this time, have done 
something not only to soften his character generally, but 
to appease the anger he had cherished towards the one 
ewe-lamb, against which, having wandered away into the 
desert place, he had closed and barred the door of the 
sheep-fold. I would go and see him, and try what could 
be done for her. 

I may be forgiven here if I make the remark that I. 
cannot help thinking that what measure of success I had 
already had with my people, was partly owing to this, 
that when I thought of a thing and had concluded it 
might do, I very seldom put off the consequent action. 
I found I was wrong sometimes, and that the particular 
action die no good ; but thus movement was kept up in 
my operative nature, preventing it from sinking towards 
the inactivity to which I was but too much inclined. 
Besides, to find out what will not do, is a step towards 
finding out what will do. Moreover, an attempt in itself 
unsuccessful may set something or other in motion that 
will help. 

My present attempt turned out one of my failures, 
though I cannot think that it would have been better 
left unmade. 

A red rayless sun, which one might have imagined 
sullen and disconsolate because he could not make the 
dead earth smile into flowers, was looking through the 
frosty fog of the winter morning as I walked across the 
bridge to find Tl omas Weir in his workshop. The 


390 ANN4.LS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


poplars stood like goblin sentinels, with black heads, 
upon which the long hair stood on end, all along the 
dark cold river. Nature looked like a life out of which 
the love has vanished. I turned from it and hastened 
on. 

Thomas was busy working with a spoke -sheave at 
the spoke of a cart-wheel. How curiously the smallest 
visual fact will sometimes keep its place in the memory, 
when it cannot with all earnestness of endeavour recall 
a thought — a far more important fact ! That will come 
again only when its time comes first. 

“ A cold morning, Thomas,” I called from the door. 

I can always keep myself warm, sir,” returned 
Thomas, cheerfully. 

“What are you doing. Torn?” I said, going up to 
him first 

“A little job for myself, sir. I'm making a few 
bookshelves.” 

“ I want to have a little talk with your father. Just 
step out in a minute or so, and let me have half an- 
hour.” 

“ Yes, sir, certainly.” 

I then went to the other end of the shop, for, curi 
ously, as it seemed to me, although father and son wert 
on the best of terms, they always worked as far from each 
other as the shop would permit, and it was a very large 
room. 

“It is not easy always to keep warm through and 
through, Thomas,” I said. 

I suppose my tone revealed to his quick percepdont 


THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WIIA. 


3^ 


that '' more was meant than met the ear.” He looked 
up from his work, his tool filled with an uncompleted 
shaving. 

‘‘ And when the heart gets cold,” I went on, “ it is 
not easily warmed again The fire *s hard to light there, 
Thomas.” 

Still he looked at me, stooping over his work, appar- 
ently with a presentiment of what was coming. 

“ I fear there is no way of lighting it again, except 
the blacksmith’s way.” 

“Hammering the iron till it is red-hot, you mean, 
drt” 

“I do. When a man’s heart has grown cold, the 
blows of affliction must fall thick and heavy before the 
fire can be got that will light it — When did you see 
your daughter Catherine, Thomas 1” 

His head dropped, and he began to work as if for 
bare life. Not a word came from the form now bent 
over his tool as if he had never lifted himself up since 
he first began in the morning. I could just see that 
his face was deadly pale, and his lips compressed like 
those of one of the violent who take the kingdom of 
heaven by force. But it was for no such agony of effort 
that his were thus closed. He went on working till the 
silence became so lengthened that it seemed settled 
into the endless I felt embarrassed. To break a silence 
is sometimes as hard as to break a spell. What Thomas 
urould have done or said if he had not had this safety- 
falve of bodily exertion , I cannot even imagine. 

“ Thomas,” I said, at length laying my hand on hia 


392 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


ihoulder, “ you are not going to part company with me, 
I hope]” 

“ You drive a man too far, sir. I Ve given in more 
to you than ever I di.l to man, sir; and I don’t know 
that I oughtn’t to be ashamed of it But you don’t 
know where to stop. If we lived a thousand years you 
would be driving a man on to the last And there *? 
no good in that, sir. A man must be at peace some* 
when.” * 

“ The question is, Thomas, whether I would be driving 
you on or back. You and I too must go on or back. 
I want to go on myself, and to make you go on too. I 
don’t want to be parted from you now or then.” 

“ That ’s all very well, sir, and very kind, I don’t 
doubt ; but, as I said afore, a man must be at peace 
somewhen.** 

“That’s what I want so much that I want you to go 
on. Peace ! I trust in God we shall both have it one 
day, somewheny as you say. Have you got this peace 
so plentifully now that you are satisfied as you are? 
You will never get it but by going on.” 

“ I do not think there is any good got in stirring a 
puddle. Let by-gones be by-gones. You make a mis* 
take, sir, in rousing an anger which I would willingly 
let sleep.” 

“ Better a wakeful anger, and a wakeful conscience 
with it, than an anger sunk into indifference, and a 
deeping dog of a conscience that will not bark. To 
have ceased to be angry is not one step nearer to y jur 
daughter. Better strike her, abuse her, with the chance 


THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. 


393 


of a kiss to follow. Ah, Thomas, you are like Jonas 
with his gourd.” 

“ I don’t see what that has to do with it." 

“ I will tell you. You are fierce in wrath at the 
disgrace to your family. Your pride is up in arms 
You don’t care for the misery of your daughter, who, 
the more wrong she has done, is the more to be pitied 
by a father’s heart Your pride, I say, is all that you 
care about The wrong your daughter has done, you 
care nothing about; or you would have taken her to 
your arms years ago, in the hope that the fervour ot 
your love would drive the devil out of her and make 
her repent I say it is not the wrong, but the disgrace 
you care for. The gourd of your pride is withered, and 
yet you will water it with your daughter’s misery.” 

Go out of my shop,” he cried ; ** or I may say what 
I should be sorry for.” 

I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom 
round the corner, leaning against the wall, and reading 
his Virgil. 

“ Don’t speak to your father, Tom,” I said, “ for a 
while. I ’ve put him out of temper. He will be best 
left alone.” 

He looked frightened. 

There ’s no harm done, Tom, my boy. I Ve been 
talking to him about your sister. He must have time to 
think over what I have said to him.” 

“ I see, sir ; I see.” 

** Be as attentive to hiir as you can,* 

« I wiU, sir.” 


394 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


It was not alone resentment at my interference that 
had thus put the poor fellow beside himself, I was cer- 
tain : I had called up all the old misery — set the wound 
bleeding again. Shame was once more wide awake and 
tearing at his heart. That his daughter should have 
done so ! For she had been his pride. She had been 
the belle of the village, and very lovely; but having 
been apprenticed to a dressmaker in Addicehead, had, 
after being there about a year and a half, returned home, 
apparently in a decline. After the birth of her child, 
however, she had, to her own disappointment, and no 
doubt to that of her father as well, begun to recover. 
What a time of wretchedness it must have been to both 
of them until she left his house, one can imagine. Most 
likely the misery of the father vented itself in greater 
unkindness than he felt, which, sinking into the proud 
nature she had derived from him, roused such a resent- 
ment as rarely if ever can be thoroughly appeased until 
'Oeath comes in to help the reconciliation. How often 
has an old love blazed up again under the blowing of 
his cold breath, and sent the spirit warm at heart into 
the regions of the unknown ! She never would utter a 
word to reveal the name or condition of him by whom 
she had been wronged. To his child, as long as he 
drew his life from her, she behaved with strange alterna- 
tions of dislike and passionate affection ; after which 
season the latter began to diminish in violence, and the 
former to become more fixed, till at length, by the time 
I had made their acquaintance, her feelings seemed to 
have settled into what would have been indifference but 


THB DEVIL IN THOMAS WBIK. 


39 < 


foi the constant reminder of her shame and her wrong 
together, which his very presence necessarily was. 

They were not only the gossips of the village who 
judged that the fact of Addicehead’s being a garrison 
town had something to do with the fate that had befallen 
her; a fate by which, in its very spring-time, when its 
flowers were loveliest, and hope was strongest for its 
summer, her life was changed into the dreary wind- 
swept, rain-sodden moor. The man who can accept such 
a sacrifice from a woman, — I say nothing of wiling it 
from her — is, in his meanness, selfishness, and dishon- 
our, contemptible as the Pharisee who, with his long 
prayers, devours the widow’s house. He leaves her 
desolate, while he walks off free. Would to God a man 
like the great-hearted, pure-bodied Milton, a man whom 
young men are compelled to respect, would in this our 
age, utter such a word as, making “ mad the guilty,” if 
such grace might be accorded them, would “ appal the 
fiee,’^ lest they too should fall into such a mire of selfiib 
dishonour I 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR. 

BOUT this time my father was taken ill, and 
several journeys to London followed. It is 
only as vicar that I am writing these meno- 
rials — for such they should be called, rather 
than annalsy though certainly the use of the latter word 
has of late become vague enough for all convenience — 
therefore I have said nothing about my home-relations ; 
but I must just mention here that I had a half-^stef, 
about half my own age, whose anxiety during my father’s 
illness rendered my visits more frequent than perhaps 
they would have been from my own. But my sister was 
right in her anxiety. My father grew worse, and in 
December he died. I will not eulogize one so dear to 
me. That he was no common man will appear from 
the fact of his unconventionality and justice in leaving 
his property to my sister, saying in his will that he had 
done all 1 could require of him, in giving me a good 




THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEII. 


397 


education ; and that, men having means in their power 
which women had not, it was unjust to the latter to 
make them, without a choice, dependent upon the for- 
mer. After the funeral, my sister, feeling it impossible 
to remain in the house any longer, begged me to take 
her with me. So, after arranging affairs, we set out, and 
reached Marshmallows on New Year’s Day. 

My sister being so much younger than myself, her 
presence in my house made very little change in my 
habits She came into my ways without any difficulty, 
so that I did not experience the least restraint from 
having to consider her. And I soon began to find her 
of considerable service among the poor and sick of my 
flock, the latter class being more numerous this winter 
on account of the greater severity of the weather. 

I now began to note a change in the habits of Cather- 
ine Weir. As far as I remember, I had never up to this 
time seen her out of her own house, except in church, 
at which she had been a regular attendant for many 
weeks. Now, however, I began to meet her when and 
where I least expected — I do not say often, but so often 
as to make me believe she went wandering about fre- 
quently. It was always at night, however, and always 
in stormy weather. The marvel was, not that a sick 
woman could be there — for a sick woman may be able 
to do an)rthing ; but that she could do so more than once 
— that was the marvel. At the same time, I began to 
miss her from church. 

Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have 
the chance of meeting any one again and again at night 


398 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 


and in stormy weather. I can relieve him from the 
difficulty. Odd as it will appear to some readers, I had 
naturally a predilection for rough weather. I think I 
enjoyed fighting with a storm in winter nearly as much 
as lying on the grass under a beech-tree in summer 
Possibly this assertion may seem strange to one likewise 
who has remarked the ordinary peaceableness of my 
disposition. But he may have done me the justice to 
remark at the same time, that I have some considerable 
pleasure in fighting the devil, though none in fighting 
my fellow-man, even in the ordinary form of disputation, 
in which it is not heart’s blood, but soul’s blood, that is 
so often shed. Indeed there are many controversies far 
more immoral, as to the manner in which they are con- 
ducted, than a brutal prize-fight. There is, however, 
a pleasure of its own in conflict; and I have alwa)rs 
experienced a certain indescribable, though I belie Vi 
not at all unusual exaltation, even in struggling with a 
well-set, thoroughly roused storm of wind and snow 
or rain. The sources of this by no means unusual 
delight, I will not stay to examine, indicating only 
that I believe the sources are deep. — I was now quite 
well, and had no reason to fear bad consequences from 
the indulgence of this surely innocent form of the love 
of strife. 

Bui I find I must give another reason as well, if I 
would be thoroughly honest with my reader. The fact 
was, that as I had recovered strength, I had become 
more troubled and restless about Miss Oldcastle. I 
could not see how I was to make any progress towards 


THK DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR« 


39f 


her favour. There seemed a barrier as insurmountable 
as intangible between her and me. The will of one 
woman came between and parted us, and that will was 
as the magic line over which no effort of will or strength 
could enable the enchanted knight to make a single 
stride. And this consciousness of being fettered by in 
sensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing some- 
thing with nothing tangible in the reach of the out- 
stretched hand, so worked upon my mind, that it natur- 
ally sought relief, as often as the elemental strife arose, 
by mingling unconstrained with the tumult of the night. 
— Will my readers find it hard to believe that this dis- 
quietude of mind should gradually sink away as the 
hours of Saturday glided down into night, and the day 
of my best labour drew nigh? Or will they answer, 
“ We believe it easily ; for then you could at least see 
the lady, and that comforted you ? ” Whatever it was 
that quieted me, not the less have I to thank God for it. 
All might have been so different. What a fearful thing 
would it have been for me to have found my mind so 
full of my own cares, that I was unable to do God's 
work and bear my neighbour’s burden ! But even then 
I would have cried to Him, and said, “ I know Thee 
that Thou art not a hard master.” 

Now, however, that I have quite accounted, as I be- 
lieve, by the peculiarity both of my disposition and cir- 
cumstances, for unusual wanderings under conditions 
when most people consider themselves fortunate within 
doors, I must return to Catherine Weir, the eccentricity 
of whose late behaviour, being in the particulars dis- 


400 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


cussed identical with that of mine, led to the necessity 
for the explanation of my habits given above. 

One January afternoon, just as twilight was folding 
her gray cloak about her, and vanishing in the night, the 
wind blowing hard from the south-west, melting the snow 
under foot, and sorely disturbing the dignity of the one 
grand old cedar which stood before my study window, 
and now filled my room with the great sweeps of its 
moaning, I felt as if the elements were calling me, and 
rose to obey the summons. My sister was, by this time, 
so accustomed to my going out in all weathers, that she 
troubled me with no expostulation. My spirits began 
to rise the moment I was in the wind. Keen, and cold, 
and unsparing, it swept through the leafless branches 
around me, with a different hiss for every tree that bent, 
and swayed, and tossed in its torrent. I made my way 
to the gate and out upon the road, and then, turning to 
the right, away from the village, I sought a kind of com- 
mon, open and treeless, the nearest approach to a moor 
thdi there was in the county, I believe, over which a 
wind like this would sweep unstayed by house, or shrub, 
or fence, the only shelter it afforded lying in the inequa- 
lities of its surface. 

I had walked with my head bent low against the 
blast, for the better part of a mile, fighting for every 
step of the way, when, coming to a deep cut in the com- 
mon, opening at right angles from the road, whence at 
some time or other a large quantity of sand had been 
carted, I turned into its defence to recover my breath, 
tnd listen to the noise of the wind in the fierce rush of 


THl DKVIL IN CATHERINS WEIR. 


401 


its sea over the open channel of the common. And 1 
remember I was thinking with myself ; “ If the aii 
would only become faintly visible for a moment, wha; a 
sight it would be of waste grandeur with its thousand.*? 
of billowing eddies, and self-involved, conflicting, and 
swallowing whirlpools from the sea-bottom of this com- 
mon ! ” when, with my imagination resting on the fancied 
vision, I was startled by such a moan as seemed about 
to break into a storm of passionate cries, but was fol 
lowed by the words ; 

O God ! I cannot bear it longer. Hast thou m 
help for me 1” 

Instinctively almost I knew that Catherine Weir was 
beside me, though I could not see where she was. In 
a moment more, however, I thought I could distinguish 
through the darkness — imagination no doubt filling up 
the truth of its form — a figure crouching in such an 
attitude of abandoned despair as recalled one of Flax 
man’s outlines, the body bent forward over the drawn-up 
knees, and the face thus hidden even from the darkness. 
I could not help saying to myself, as I took a step or 
two towards her, “ What is thy trouble to hers !” 

I may here remark that I had come to the conclusion, 
from pondering over her case, that until a yet deeper 
and bitterer resentment than that which she bore to her 
father was removed, it would be of no use attacking the 
latter. For the former kept her in a state of hostility 
towards her whole race : with herself at war she had no 
gentle thoughts, no love for her kind ; but ever 
** She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale*" 


402 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGH BOUEHOOD. 


from every hurt that she received from or imagined to 
be offered her by anything human. So I had resolved 
that the next time I had an opportunity of speaking to 
her, I would make an attempt to probe the evil to its 
root, though I had but little hope, I confess, of doing 
any good. And now when I heard her say, “ Hast 
thou no help for me f ’ I went near her with the words : 

** God has, indeed, help for His own offspring. Has 
He not suffered that He might help? But you have 
not yet forgiven.” 

When I began to speak, she gave a slight start : she 
was far too miserable to be terrified at anything. Before 
[ had finished, she stood erect on her feet, facing me 
with the whiteness of her face glimmering through the 
blackness of the night. 

“ I ask Him for peace,” she said, “ and He sends me 
more torment.” 

And I thought of Ahab when he said, “ Hast thou 
found me, O mine enemy?” 

If we had what we asked for always, we should too 
often find it was not what we wanted, after all.” 

“ You will not leave me alone,” she said. “ It is too 
bad.” 

Poor woman ! It was well for her she could pray to 
God in her trouble ; for she could scarcely endure a word 
from her fellow-man. She, despairing before God, was 
fierce as a tigress to her fellow-sinner who would stretch 
4 hand to help her out of the mire, and set her beside 
him on the rock which h^ felt firm under his own feet. 

I will not leave you alone, Catherine,” 1 said, feel 


THX DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIl. 


¥n 


ing that I must at length assume another tone of speech 
with her who resisted gentleness. “ Scorn my inter- 
ference as you rill,” I said, “I have yet to give an 
account of you. Ai.d I have to fear lest my Master 
should require your blood at my hands. I did not 
follow you here, you may well believe me ; but I have 
found you here, and I must speak.” 

All this time the wind was roaring overhead. But 
in the hollow was stillness, and I was so near her, that 
I could hear every word she said, although she spoke 
in a low compressed tone. 

* “ Have you a right to persecute me,” she said, “ be- 
cause I am unhappy 1” 

“ I have a right, and, more than a right, I have a 
duty to aid your better self against your worse. You, I 
fear, are siding with your worse self.” 

“You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that ” 

And here she stopped in a way that let me know she 
would say no more. 

“That you have had wrongs, and bitter wrongs, I 
do not for a moment doiibt And him who has done 
you most wrong, you will not forgive.” 

“ No.” 

“ No. Not even for the sake of Him who, hanging on 
the tree, after all the bitterness of blows and whipping, 
and derision, and rudest gestures and taunts, even when 
the faintness of death was upon Him, cried to His father 
to forgive their cruelty. He asks you to forgive the 
man who wronged you, and you will not — not even foi 
Him ! Oh, Catherine Catherine !” 


404 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ It is very easy to talk, Mr Walton,” she returned 
with forced but cool scorn. 

“ Tell me, then,” I said, ‘‘ have you nothing to repent 
of? Have you done no wrong in this same miserable 
matter 1 ” 

** I do not understand you, sir,” she said, freezingly, 
petulantly, not sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, 
that I meant what I did mean. 

I was fully resolved to be plain with her now. 

“ Catherine Weir,” I said, “ did not God give you a 
house to keep fair and pure for Him ? Did you keep it 
such?” 

“ He told me lies,” she cried fiercely, with a cry that 
seemed to pierce through the storm over our heads, up 
towards the everlasting justice. “ He lied, and I trusted 
For his sake I sinned, and he threw me from him.” 

“ You gave him what was not yours to give. What 
right had you to cast your pearl before a swine % But 
dare you say it was all for his sake you did it ? Was it 
all self-denial ? Was there no self-indulgence 1 ” 

She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her 
head, let them drop by her side, and said nothing. 

“ You knew you were doing wrong. You felt it even 
more than he did. For God made you with a more 
delicate sense of purity, with a shrinking from the 
temptation, with a womanly foreboding of disgrace, to 
help you to hold the cup of your honour steady, which 
yet you dropped on the ground. Do not seek refuge 
in the cant about a woman’s weakness. The strength 
of the woman is as needful to her womanhood as thu 


THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WKIE. 


40s 


strength of the man is to his manhood ; and a woman 
is just as strong as she will be. And now, instead of 
humbling yourself before your Father in heaven, whom 
you have wronged more even than your father on earth, 
you rage over your injuries and cherish hatred against 
him who wronged you. But I will go yet further, and 
show you, in God’s name, that you wronged your seducer. 
For you were his keeper, as he was yours. What if he 
had found a noble-hearted girl who also trusted him 
entirely — ^just until she knew she ought not to listen to 
him a moment longer? who, when his love showed itself 
less than human, caring but for itself, rose in the royalty 
of her maidenhood, and looked him in the face ? Would 
he not have been ashamed before her, and so before 
himself, seeing in the glass ot her dignity his own con- 
temptibleness ? But instead of such a woman he found 
you, who let him do as he would. No redemption for 
him in you. And now he walks the earth the worse for 
you, defiled by your spoil, glorying in his poor victory 
over you, despising all women for your sake, unrepentant 
and proud, ruining others the easier that he has already 
ruined you.” 

“ He does ! he does ! ” she shrieked ; “ but I will have 
my revenge. I can and I will.” 

And, darting past me, she rushed out into the storm. 
1 followed, and could just see that she took the way to 
the village. Her dim shape went down the wind before 
me into the darkness. I followed in the same direction, 
fast and faster, for the wind was behind me, and a vague 
fear which ever grew in my heart urged me to overtake 


406 annals of a quiet neighbourhooix 


her. What had I done? To what might I not have 
driven her 1 And although all I had said was true, and 
I had spoken from motives which, as far as I knew mj 
own heart, I could not condemn, yet, as I sped after 
her, there came a reaction of feeling from the severity 
with which I had displayed her own case against her. 
“ Ah ! poor sister,” I thought, “ was it for me thus to 
reproach thee who had suffered already so fiercely? If 
the Spirit speaking in thy heart could not win thee, how 
should my words of hard accusation, true though they 
were, every one of them, rouse in thee an)^thing but the 
wrath that springs from shame ? Should I not have tried 
again, and yet again, to waken thy love; and then a 
sweet and healing shame, like that of her who bathed 
the Master’s feet with her tears, would have bred fresh 
love, and no wrath.” 

But again I answered for myself, that my heart had 
not been the less tender towards her that I had tried to 
humble her, for it was that she might slip from under 
the net of her pride. Even when my tongue spoke the 
hardest things I could find, my heart was yearning over 
her. If I could but make her feel that she too had been 
wrong, would not the sense of common wrong between 
them help her to forgive ? And with the first motion of 
willing pardon, would not a spring of tenderness, grief, 
and hope, burst from her poor old dried-up heart, and 
make it young and fresh once more ! Thus I reasoned 
with myself as I followed her back through the darkness. 

The wind fell a little as we came near the village, and 
the rain began to come down in torrents. There mus^ 


THl DIVIL IN CATHERINE WEIE. 


403 


have been a moon somewhere behind the tlouds, foi 
the darkness became less dense, and I began to fancy I 
could again see the dim shape which had rushed from 
me. I increased my speed, and became certain of it. 
Suddenly, her strength giving way, or her foot stumbling 
over something in the road, she fell to the earth with a 
cry. 

I was beside her in a moment. She was insensible. 
I did what I could for her, and in a few minutes she 
began to come to herself. 

“ Where am I ? Who is it 1 ” she asked, listlessly. 

When she found who I was, she made a great effort to 
rise, and succeeded. 

“ You must take my arm,” I said, " and I will help 
you to the vicarage.” 

“ I will go home,” she answered. 

“ Lean on me now, at least ; for you must ^'et some- 
where.” 

“ What does it matter 1 ” she said, in such a tone of 
despair, that it went to my very heart. 

A wild half-ciy, half-sob followed, and then she took 
my arm, and said nothing more. Nor did I trouble her 
with any words, except, when we reached the gate, to 
beg her to come into the vicarage instead of going 
home. But she would not listen to me, and so I took 
her home. 

She pulled the key of the shop from her pccket. Her 
hand trembled so that I took it from her, and opened 
the door. A candle with a long snuff was flickering on 
the counter • and stretched out on the counter, with hif 


4o8 annals of a quiet neighbourhooix 


head about a foot from the candle, lay little Gerard, fast 
asleep. 

“ Ah, little darling ! ” I said in my heart, “ this is not 
much like painting the sky yet But who knows V* And 
as I uttered the commonplace question in my mind, in 
my mind it was suddenly changed into the half of a great 
dim prophecy by the answer which arose to it there, for 
the answer was “ God.” 

I lifted the little fellow in my arms. He had fallen 
asleep weeping, and his face was dirty, and streaked 
with the channels of his tears. Catherine had snuffed 
the candle, and now stood with it in her hand, waiting 
for me to go. But, without heeding her, I bore m} 
child to the door that led to their dwelling. I had 
never been up those stairs before, and therefore knew 
nothing of the way. But without offering any opposi- 
tion, his mother followed, and lighted me. What a sad 
face of suffering and strife it was upon which that dim 
light fell ! She set the candle down upon the table of a 
small room at the top of the stairs, which might have 
been comfortable enough but that it was neglected and 
disordered ; and now I saw that she Ud not even nave 
her child to sleep with her, for his crib stood in a comer 
of this their sitting-room. 

I sat down on a haircloth couch, and proceeded to 
undress little Gerard, trying as much as I could not to 
wake him. In this I was almost successful. Catherine 
stood staring at me without saying a word. She looked 
dazed, perhaps from the effects of her fall But she 
brought me his nightgown notwithstanding. Just as I 


THl DEVIL IN CATHEEINB WBII. 




had finished putting it on, and was rising to lay him in 
his crib, he opened his eyes, and looked at me; then 
gave a hurried look round, as if for his mother; then 
threw his arms about my neck and kissed me. I laid 
him down and the same moment he was fast asleep. In 
the morning it would not be even a dream to him. 

“ Now,” I thought, “ you are safe for the night, poor 
fatherless child. Even your mother’s hardness will not 
make you sad now. Perhaps the heavenly Father will 
■end you loving dreams.” 

I turned to Catherine, and bade her good-night. She 
just put her hand in mine ; but, instead of returning my 
leave-taking, said : 

“ Do not fancy you will get the better of me. Mi 
Walton, by being kind to that boy. I will have my 
revenge, and I know how. I am only waiting my time. 
Wlien he is just going to drink, I will dash it from hii 
hand. I will. At the altar I will.” 

Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she 
ma "^e fierce gestures with her arm. I saw that argument 
was useless. 

“You loved him once, Catherine,” I said. “Love 
him again. Love him better. Forgive him. Revenge 
is far worse than anything you have done yet” 

“ What do I care 1 Why should I care 1 ” 

And she laughed terribly. 

I made haste to leave the room and the house ; but 1 
lingered for nearly an hour about the place before 1 
could make up my mind to go home, so much was 1 
afraid lest she should do something altogether insane^ 


410 ANNALS OF A QUIET NBIGHBOUEHOOD. 


But at length I saw the candle appear in the shop, which 
was some relief to my anxiety ; and reflecting that hei 
one consuming thought of revenge was some security for 
her conduct otherwise, I went home. 

That night my own troubles seemed small to me, and 
I did not brood over them at alL My mind was filled 
with the idea of the sad misery which, rather than in 
which, that poor woman was ; and I prayed for her as 
for a desolate human world whose sun had deserted the 
heavens, whose fair fields, rivers, and groves were har- 
dening into the frost of death, and all their germs of 
hope becoming but portions of the lifeless mass. ** If J 
am sorrowful,” I said, God lives none the less. And 
His will is better than mine, yea, is my hidden and per- 
fected will. In Him is my life. His will be done. 
What, then, is my trouble compared to hers? I will 
not sink into it and be selfish.” 

In the morning my first business was to inquire after 
her. I found her in the shop, looking very ill, and 
obstinately reserved. Gerard sat in a corner, looking as 
far from happy as a child of his years could looL As I 
left the shop he crept out with me. 

Gerard, come back,” cried his mother. 

“ I will not take him away,” I said. 

The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to 
whisper to me, and I stooped to listen. 

“ I dreamed last night,” said the boy, “ that a big 
angel with white wings came and took me out of my 
bed, and carried me high, high up — so high that I could 
not dream any more.” 


THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIS. 


4«i 


“ We shall be carried up so high one day, Gerard, my 
boy, that we shall not want to dream any more. For 
we shall be carried up to God himself. Now go back to 
your mother.” 

He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR. 



WANTED just to pass the gate, and look up 
the road towards Oldcastle Hall. I though! 
to see nothing but the empty road between 
the leafless trees, lying there like a dead 
stream that would not bear me on to the “ sunny plea- 
sure-dome with caves of ice ” that lay beyond. But just 
as I reached the gate. Miss Oldcastle came out of the 
lodge, where I learned afterwards the woman that kept 
the gate was ill. 

When she saw me she stopped, and I entered hur- 
riedly, and addressed her. But I could say nothing 
better than the merest commonplaces. For her old 
manner, which I had almost forgotten, a certain cold- 
ness shadowed with haughtiness, whose influence I had 
strongly felt when I began to make her acquaintance, 
had returned. I cannot make my reader understand 
hovi this could be blended mth the sweetness in hef 



THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR. 


4*3 


face and the gentleness of her manners ; but there the 
opposites were, and I could feel them both. There was 
likewise a certain drawing of herself away from me, 
which checked the smallest advance on my part; so 
that — I wonder at it now, but so it was- — ^after a few 
words of very ordinary conversation, I bade her good 
morning and went away, feeling like “ a man forbid ” — 
as if I had done her some wrong, and she had chidden 
me for it What a stone lay in my breast! I could 
hardly breathe for it What could have caused her to 
change her manner towards mel I had made no ad- 
vance ; I could not have offended her. Yet there she 
glided up the road, and here stood I, outside the gate. 
That road was now a flowing river that bore from me 
the treasure of the earth, while my boat was spell-bound, 
and could not follow. I would run after her, fall at he* 
feet, and intreat to know wherein I had offended her. 
But there I stood enchanted, and there she floated away 
between the trees; till at length she turned the slow 
sweep, and I, breathing deep as she vanished from my 
sight, turned likewise, and walked back the dreary way 
to the village. And now I knew that I had never been 
miserable in my life before. And I knew, too, that .T 
had never loved her as I loved her now. 

But, as I had for the last ten years of my life been 
striving to be a right will, with a thousand failures and 
forgetfulnesses every one of those years, while yet the 
desire grew stronger as hope recovered from eveiy fail- 
ure, I would now try to do my work as if nothing had 
happened to incapacitate me for it So I wen< on to 


414 ANNALS or A QUIKT NEIGHBOU AHOOIk 


fulfil the plan with which I had left home, including, as 
it did, a visit to Thomas Weir, whom I had not seen in 
own sliop since he had ordered me out of it This, 
aj far as I was concerned, was more accidental than 
intentional. I had, indeed, abstained from going to him 
for a while, in order to give him time to come round; 
but then circumstances which I have recorded inter* 
vened to prevent me; so that as yet no advance had 
been made on my part any more than on his towards a 
reconciliation; which, however, could have been such 
only on one side, for I had not been in the least 
offended by the way he had behaved to me, and needed 
no reconciliation. To tell the truth, I was pleased to 
find that my words had had force enough with him to 
rouse his wrath. Anything rather than indifference I 
That the heart of the honest man would in the end right 
me, I could not doubt; in the meantime I would see 
whether a friendly call might not improve the state ot 
affairs. Till he yielded to the voice within him, how- 
ever, I could not expect that our relation to each other 
would be quite restored. As long as he resisted his 
conscience, anJ knew that I sided with his conscience, 
it was impossible he should regard me with peaceful 
eyes, however much he might desire to be friendly with 
me. 

I found him busy, as usual, for he was one of the most 
diligent men I have ever known. But his face was 
gloomy, and I thought or fancied that the old scorn had 
begun once more to usurp the expression of it Young 
Tom was not in the shop. 


THE DEVIL IN THE VICAE 


415 


“ It is a long time since I saw you, now, Thomas." 

“ I can hardly wonder at that,” he returned, as if he 
were trying to do me justice ; but his eyes dropped, and 
he resumed his work, and said no more. I thought it 
better to make no reference to the past even by assuring 
him that it was not from resentment that I had been a 
stranger. 

“ How is Torn?” I asked. 

“ Well enough,” he returned. Then, with a smile of 
peevishness not unmingled with contempt, he added : 
“ He *s getting too uppish for me. I don’t think the 
I^atin agrees with him.” 

I could not help suspecting at once how the matter 
stood — namely, that the father, unhappy in his conduct 
to his daughter, and unable to make up his mind to do 
right with regard to her, had been behaving captiously 
and unjustly to his son, and so had rendered himself 
more miserable than ever. 

“ Perhaps he finds it too much for him without me,” 
I said, evasively ; “ but I called to-day partly to inform 
him that I am quite ready now to recommence our read- 
ings together ; after which I hope you will find the Latin 
agree with him better.” 

** I wish you would let him alone, sir — 1 mean, take 
no more trouble about him. You see I can’t do as you 
want me ; I wasn’t made to go another man’s way ; and 
so ii ’s very hard — more than I can bear — to be under 
so much obligation to you.” 

** But you mistake me altogether, Thomas. It is for 
the lad’s own sake that I want to go on reading with hiok 


4I6 annals OV a quiet NEIOHBOURHOOa 


And you won’t interfere between him and any use I can 
be of to him. I assure you, to have you go my way in- 
stead of your own is the last thing I could wish, though 
I confess I do wish very much that you would choose 
the right way for your own way.” 

He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence. 

Thomas,” I said at length, “ I had thought you were 
breaking every bond of Satan that withheld you from 
entering into the kingdom of heaven ; but I fear he has 
strengthened his bands and holds you now as much a 
captive as ever. So it is not even your own way you arc 
walking in, but his.” 

“ It ’s no use your trying to frighten me. I don’t 
believe in the devil.” 

** It is God I want you to believe in. And I am not 
going to dispute with you now about whether there is a 
devil or not. In a matter of life and death we have no 
time for settling every disputed point” 

‘‘ Life or death ! What do you mean ?” 

“I mean that w'hether you believe there is a devil 
or not, you know there is an evil power in your mind 
dragging you down. I am not speaking in generals ; I 
mean now^ and you know as to what I mean it And 
if you yield to it, that evil power, whatever may te your 
theory about it, will drag you down to death. It is a 
matter of life or death, I repeat, not of theory about 
the devil.” 

“ Well, I always did say, that if you once give a priest 
an inch he ’ll take an ell ; and 1 am sony' 1 forgot it for 
once.” 


THE DEVIL IN THE VICAB. 


417 


Having said this, he shut up his mouth in a mannex that 
indicated plainly enough he would not open it again foi 
some time. This, more than his speech, irritated me, and 
with a mere ** good morning,” I walked out of the shoi). 

No sooner was I in the open air than I knew that I 
too, I as well as poor Thomas Weir, was under a spell ; 
knew that I had gone to him before I had recovered 
sufficiently from the mingled disappointment and morti- 
fication of my interview with Miss Oldcastle ; that while 
I spoke to him I was not speaking with a whole heart ; 
that I had been discharging a duty as if I had been dis- 
charging a musket ; that, alth\;ugh I had spoken the truth, 
I had spoken it ungraciously and selfishly. 

I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back 
into the shop. 

“ Thomas, my friend,’* I said, holding out my hand, 
“ I beg your pardon. I was wrong. I spoke to you as 
I ought not I was troubled in my own mind, and that 
made me lose my temper and be rude to you, who are 
far more troubled than I am. Forgive me !” 

He did not take my hand at first, but stared at me as 
if, not comprehending me, he supposed that I was back- 
ing up what I had said last with more of the same sort. 
But by the time I had finished he saw what I meant ; his 
countenance altered and looked as if the evil spirit were 
about to depart from him ; he held out his hand, gave 
mine a great grasp, dnipped his head, went on with his 
work, and said never a word. 

1 went out of the shop once more, but in a greatly 
altered mood 


4i8 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


On the way home, I tried to find out how it was that 
I had that morning failed so signally. I had littl? 
virtue in keeping my temper, because it was naturall} 
very even; therefore I had the more shame in losing 
it. I had borne all my uneasiness about Miss Oldcastle 
without, as far as I knew, transgressing in this fashion 
till this very morning. Were great sorrows less hurtful 
to the temper than small disappointments I Yes, surely. 
But Shakespeare represents Brutus^ after hearing of the 
sudden death of his wife, as losing his temper with 
Cassius to a degree that bewildered the latter, who said 
he did not know that Brutus could have been so angry. 
Is this consistent with the character of the stately-minded 
Brutus^ or with the dignity of sorrow? It is. For the 
loss of his wife alone would have made him only less 
irritable ; but the whole weight of an army, with its 
distracting cares and conflicting interests, pressed upon 
him ; and the battle of an empire was to be fought at 
daybreak, so that he could not be alone with his griefi 
Between the silence of death in his mind, and the roar 
of life in his brain, he became irritable. 

Looking yet deeper into it, I found that till this 
morning I had experienced no personal mortification 
with respect to Miss Oldcastle. It was not the mere 
disappointment of having no more talk with her, for the 
sight of her was a blessing I had not in the least expected, 
that had worked upon me, but the fact that she had 
repelled or seemed to repel me. And thus I found that 
self was at the root of the wrong I had done to one over 
whose mental condition, especially while I was telling 


THE DEVIL IM THE VICAR. 


4«f 


Vlim the unwelcome truth, I ought to have been as tender 
as a mother over her wounded child. I could not say 
that it was wrong to feel disappointed or even mortified : 
but something was wrong when one whose especial busi- 
ness it was to serve his people in the name of Him who 
was full of grace and truth, made them suffer because of 
his own inward pain. 

No sooner had I settled this in my mind than my 
trouble returned with a sudden pang. Had I actually 
seen her that morning, and spoken to her, and left her 
with a pain in my heart ? What if that face of hers was 
doomed ever to bring with it such a pain — to be ever 
to me no more than a lovely vision radiating grief] If 
so, I would endure in silence and as patiently as I could, 
trying to make up for the lack of brightness in my own 
fate by causing more brightness in the fate of others. I 
would at least keep on trying to do my work. 

That moment I felt a little hand poke itself into mine. 
I looked down, and there was Gerard Weir looking up 
in my face. I found myself in the midst of the children 
coming out of school, for it was Saturday, and a half- 
holiday. He smiled in my face, and I hope I smiled 
in his ; and so, hand in hand, we went on to the vicar- 
age, where I gave him up to my sister. But I cannot 
convey to my reader any notion of the quietness that 
entered my heart with the grasp of that childish hand. 
I think it was the faith of the boy in me that comforted 
me, but I could not help thinking of the words of our 
Lord about receiving a child in His name, and so re 
ceiving Him. By the time wc reached the vicarage m} 


420 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


heart was very quiet As the little child held by my 
hand, so I seemed to be holding by God’s hand. And 
a sense of heart-security, as well as soul-safety, awoke 
in me ; and I said to myself, — Surely He will take care of 
my heart as well as of my mind and my conscience. For 
one blessed moment I seemed to be at the very centre 
of things, looking out quietly upon my own troubled 
emotions as upon something outside of me — apart from 
me, even as one from the firm rock may look abroad 
upon the vexed sea. And I thought I then knew some- 
thing of what the apostle meant when he said, “ Your 
life is hid with Christ in God.” I knew that there was 
a deeper self than that which was thus troubled. 

I had not had my usual ramble this morning, and was 
otherwise ill prepared for the Sunday. So I went early 
into the church ; but finding that the sexton’s wife had 
not yet finished lighting the stove, I sat down by my 
own fire in the vestry. 

Suppose I am sitting there now while I say one word 
for our congregations in winter. I was very particular 
in having the church well warmed before Sunday. I 
think some parsons must neglect seeing after this matter 
on principle, because warmth may make a weary' crea- 
ture go to sleep here and there about the place : as if 
any healing doctrine could enter the soul while it is on 
the rack of the frost The clergy should see — ^for it is 
their business — that their people have no occasion to 
think of their bodies at all while they are in church. 
They have enough ado to think of the truth. When 
our I.,ord was feeding even their bodies, He made their 


THl DBYIL IN THE VICAE. 


431 


all sit down on the grass. It is worth noticing that there 
was much grass in the place — a rare thing I should think 
in those countries — and therefore, perhaps, it was chosen 
by Him for their comfort in feeding their souls and 
bodies both. If I may judge from experiences of my 
own, one of the reasons why some churches are of all 
places the least likely for anything good to be found in, 
is, that they are as wretchedly cold to the body as they 
are to the soul — too cold every way for anything to grow 
in. them. Edelweiss ^ “Noble-white” — as they call a 
plant growing under the snow on some of the Alps — 
could not survive the winter in such churches. There is 
small welcome in a cold house. And the clergyman, 
who is the steward, should look to it. It is for him to 
give his Master^s friends a welcome to his Master’s 
house — for the welcome of a servant is precious, and 
now-a-days very rare. 

And now Mrs Stone must have finished. I go into 
the old church which looks as if it were quietly waiting 
for its people. No. She has not done yet. Never 
mind. — How full of meaning the vaulted roof looks ! as 
if, having gathered a soul of its own out of the genera- 
tions that have worshipped here for so long, it had feel- 
ing enough to grow hungry for a psalm before the end 
of the week. 

Some such half-foolish fancy was now passing through 
my tranquillized mind or rather heart — for the mind 
would have rejected It at once — when to my — what shall 
I call it t — not amazement, for the delight was too strong 
for amazement — the old organ woke up and began to 


499 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


think aloud. As if it had been brooding over it all the 
week in the wonderful convolutions of its wooden brain, 
it began to sigh out the Agnus Dei of Mozart’s twelfth 
mass upon the air of the still church, which lay swept 
and garnished for the Sunday. — How could it be? I 
know now; and I guessed then; and my guess was 
right ; and my reader must be content to guess too. I 
took no step to verify my conjecture, for I felt that I 
was upon my honour, but sat in one of the pews and 
listened, till the old organ sobbed itself into silence. 
Then I heard the steps of the sexton’s wife vanish from 
the church, heard her lock the door, and knew that 1 
was alone in the ancient pile, with the twilight growing 
thick about me, and felt like Sir Galahad, when, after 
the “rolling organ-harmony,” he heard “wings flutter, 
voices hover clear.” In a moment the mood changed ; 
and I was sorry, not that the dear organ was dead for 
the night, but actually felt gently- mournful that the won • 
derful old thing never had and never could have a con- 
scious life of its own. So strangely does the passion — 
which I had not invented, reader, whoever thou art that 
thinkest love, and a church do not well hannonize — so 
strangely, I say, full to overflowing of its own vitality, 
does it radiate life, that it would even of its own super- 
abundance quicken into blessed consciousness the inani- 
mate objects around it, thinking what they would feel 
had they a consciousness correspondent to their form, 
were their faculties moved from within themselves in* 
Itead of from the will and operation of humanity. 

I lingered on long in the dark church, as my reade/ 


THl DEVIL IN THE VXCAt. 


4*3 


knows I had done often before. Nor did I move from 
^he seat I had first taken till I left the sacred building. 
And there I ^ made my sermon for the next morning. 
And herewith I impart it to my reader. But he need 
not be afraid of another such as I have already given 
him, for I impart it only in its original germ, its concen- 
trated essence of sermon — these four verses : 

Had I the grace to win the grace 
Of some old man complete in lore, 

My face would worship at hb face. 

Like childhood seated on the floor, 

Had I the grace to win the grace 
Of childhood, loving shy, apart, 

The child should find a nearer place, 

And teach me resting on my heart, 

Had I the prace to win the grace 
Of maiden living all above, 

My soul wo'ild trample down the base, 

Th.'it she might have a man to love. 

A grace I have no grace to win 
Knocks now at my half-open door : 

Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in. 

Thy grace divine is all and more. 

This was what 1 made for myself I told my people 
that God had created all our worships, reverences, ten- 
ilei nesses, loves. That they had come out of His 
heart, and He had made them in us because they were 
in Him first. That otherwise He would not have cared 
to make them. That all that we could imagine of the 
wise, the lovely, the beautiful, was in Him, only in- 
finitely more of them than we could not merely imagine. 


4*4 ANKAL8 OF A QUIET NIIGHBOURHOOD. 


but understand, even if He did all He could to explain 
them to us, to make us understand them. That in Him 
was all the wise teaching of the best man ever known in 
the world and more ; all the grace and gentleness and 
truth of the best child and more ; all the tenderness and 
devotion of the truest type of womankind and more ; 
for there is a love that passeth the love of woman, not 
the love of Jonathan to David, though David said so . 
but the love of God to the men and women whom He 
has made. Therefore, we must be all God’s ; and all 
our aspirations, all our worships, all our honours, all our 
loves, must centre in Him, the Best 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AN ANGEL UNAWARES. 



lEELING rather more than the usual reaction 
so well-known to clergymen after the con- 
centrated duties of the Sunday, I resolved 
on Monday to have the long country walk I 
had been disappointed of on the Saturday previous. It 
was such a day as it seems impossible to describe except 
in negatives. It was not stormy, it was not rainy, it was 
not sunshiny, it was not snowy, it was not frosty, it was 
not foggy, it was not clear, it was nothing but cloudy 
and quiet and cold and generally ungenial, with just a 
puff of wind now and then to give an assertion to its 
ungeniality. I should not in the least have cared to tell 
what sort the day was, had it not been an exact repre- 
sentation of my own mind. It was not the day that 
made me such as itself. The weather could always 
easily influence the surface of my mind, my external 
mood, but it could never go much further. The small 



4^6 ANNALS OP A QUIB1 NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


est pleasure would break through the conditions that 
merely came of such a day. But this morning my whole 
mind and heart seemed like the day. The summer was 
thousands of miles off on the other side of the globe. 
Ethel wyn, up at the old house there across the river, 
seemed millions of miles away. The summer might 
come back ; she never would come nearer : it was 
absurd to expect it For in such moods stupidity con- 
stantly arrogates to itself the qualities and claims of 
insight. In fact, it passes itself off for common sense, 
making the most dreary ever appear the most reason- 
able. In such moods a man might almost be persuaded 
that it was ridiculous to expect any such poetic absurdity 
as the summer, with its diamond mornings and its opal 
evenings, ever to come again ; nay, to think that it ever 
had had any existence except in the fancies of the human 
heart — one of its castles in the air. The whole of life 
seemed faint and foggy, with no red in it anywhere j and 
when I glanced at my present relations in Marshmal- 
lows, I could not help finding several circumstances to 
give some appearance of justice to this appearance of 
things. I seemed to myself to have done no good. I 
had driven Catherine Weir to the verge of suicide, while 
at the same time I could not restrain her from the con- 
templation of some dire revenge. I had lost the man 
upon whom I had most reckoned as a seal of my minis- 
try, namely, Thomas Weir. True there was Old Rogers , 
but Old Rogers was just as good before I found hin\, 
1 could not dream of having made him any better. And 
■o I went on brooding over all the disappointing por* 


AN ANGEL UNAWAEES. 


4*? 


tions of my labour, all the time thinking about myself, 
instead of God and the work that lay for me to do in 
the days to come. 

“ Nobody,’* I said, “ but Old Rogers understands me. 
Nobody would care, as far as my teaching goes, if an- 
other man took my place from next Sunday forward. 
And for Miss Oldcastle, her playing the Agnus Dei on 
Saturday afternoon, even if she intended that I should 
hear it, could only indicate at most that she knew how 
she had behaved to me in the morning, and thought she 
had gone too far and been unkind, or perhaps was afraid 
lest she should be accountable for any failure I might 
make in my Sunday duties, and therefore felt bound to 
do something to restore my equanimity.” 

Choosing, though without consciously intending to do 
so, the dreariest path to be found, I wandered up the 
side of the slow black river, with the sentinel pollards 
looking at themselves in its gloomy mirror, just as I was 
looking at myself in the mirror of my circumstances. 
They leaned in all directions, irregular as the headstones 
in an ancient churchyard. In the summer they looked 
like explosions of green leaves at the best; now they 
looked like the burnt-out cases of the summer’s fire- 
works. How difierent, too, was the river from the time 
when a whole fleet of shining white lilies lay anchored 
among their own broad green leaves upon its clear 
waters, filled with sunlight in every pore, as they them* 
selves would fill the pores of a million-caverned sponge I 
But I could not even recall the past summer as beau- 
tiful I seemed to care for nothing. The first miserable 


498 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


afternoon at Marshmallows looked now as if it had been 
the whole of my coming relation to the place seen 
through a reversed telescope. And here I was in it 
now. 

The walk along the side was tolerably dry, although 
the river was bank-full. But when I came to the bridge 
I wanted to cross — ^a wooden one — I found that the 
approach to it had been partly undermined and carried 
away, for here the river had overflowed its banks in one 
of the late storms ; and all about the place was still very 
wet and swampy. I could therefore get no farther in 
my gloomy walk, and so turned back upon my steps. 
Scarcely had I done so, when I saw a man coming 
hastily towards me from far upon the straight line of the 
river walk. I could not mistake him at any distance. 
It was Old Rogers. I felt both ashamed and comforted 
when I recognized him. 

** Well, Old Rogers,” I said, as soon as he came within 
hail, tiying to speak cheerfully, ‘‘ you cannot get much 
farther this way — without wading a bit, at least” 

“ I don’t want to go no farther now, sir. I came to 
find you.” 

“ Nothing amiss, I hope 1 ” 

“ Nothing as I knows on, sir. I only wanted to have 
a little chat with you. I told master I wanted to leave 
for an hour or so. He alius lets me do just as I like.” 

" But how did you know where to find me ? ” 

“ I saw you come this way. You passed me right on 
the bridge, and didn’t see me, sir. So says I to myself, 
‘Old Rogers, sumraat’s amiss wi’ parson to-day. 


AN ANGEl UNAWARES. 


429 


never went by me like that afore. This won't do. You 
just go and see.' So I went home and told master, and 
here I be, sir. And I hope you’re noways offended 
Ivith the liberty of me.” 

“ Did I really pass you on the bridge 1” I said, unable 
to understand it 

“That you did, sir. I knowed parson must be a 
goo dish bit in his own in’ards afore he would do that” 

“ I needn’t tell you I didn’t see you. Old Rogers.” 

“ I could tell you that, sir. I hope there ’s nothing 
gore main wrong, sir. Miss is well, sir, I hope ? ” 

“ Quite well, I thank you. No, my dear fellow, no- 
thing ’s gone main wrong, as you say. Some of my run- 
ning tackle got jammed a bit, that ’s all. I ’m a little 
out of spirits, I believe.” 

“Well, sir, don’t you be afeard I’m going to be 
troublesome. Don’t think I want to get aboard your 
ship, except you fling me a rope. There ’s a many things 
you mun ha’ to think about that an ignorant man like 
me couldn’t take up if you was to let 'em drop. And 
being a gentleman, I do believe, makes the matter worse 
betuxt us. And there ’s many a thing that no man can 
go talkin’ about to any but only the Lord himself. Still 
you can’t help jis poor folks seeing when there ’s summat 
amiss, and we can’t help havin’ our own thoughts any 
more than the sailor’s jackdaw that couldn’t speak. 
And sometimes we may be nearer the mark than you 
would suppose, for God has made us all of one blood, 
you know.” 

“What are you driving at. Old Rogers?” I said with 


430 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


a smile, which was none the less true that I suspected 
he had read some of the worst trouble of my heart. For 
why should I mind an honourable man like him know- 
ing what oppressed me, though, as things were, I cer- 
tainly should not, as he said, choose to tell it to ,iny but 
one? 

** I don’t want to say what I was driving at, if it was 
anything but this — that I want to put to the clumsy 
hand of a rough old tar, with a heart as soft as the pitch 
that makes his hand hard — to trim your sails a bit, sir, 
and help you to lie a point closer to the wind. You ’re 
not just close-hauled, sir.” 

** Say on. Old Rogers. I understand you, and I will 
listen with all my heart, for you have a good right to 
speak.” 

And Old Rogers spoke thus : — 

" Oncet upon a time, I made a voyage in a merchant 
barque. We were becalmed in the South Seas. And 
weary work it wur, a doin’ of nothin’ from day to day. 
But when the water began to come up thick from the 
bottom of the water-casks, it was wearier a deal. Then 
a thick fog came on, as white as snow a’most, and we 
couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead or on any side 
of us. But the fog didn’t keep the heat off ; it only made 
it worse, and the water was fast going done. The short 
allowance grew shorter and shorter, and the men, some 
of them, were half-mad with thirst, and began to look 
bad at one another. I kept up my heart by looking 
ahead inside me. For days and days the fog hung about 
ut as if the air had been made o’ flocks o’ wool The 


AN ANGEL UNAWARES. 


431 


captain took to his berth, and several of the crew to 
their hammocks, for it was just as hot on deck as any- 
where else. The mate lay on a sparesail on the quarter- 
deck, groaning. I had a strong suspicion that the 
schooner was drifting, and hove the lead again and 
again, but could find no bottom. Some of the men got 
hold of the spirits, and that didn’t quench their thirst 
It drove them clean mad. I had to knock one of them 
down myself with a capstan bar, for he ran at the mate 
with his knife. At last I began to lose all hope. And 
still I was sure the schooner was slowly drifting. My 
head was like to burst, and my tongue was like a lump 
of holystone in my mouth. Well, one morning, I had 
just, as I thought, lain down on the deck to breathe my 
last, hoping I should die before 1 went quite mad with 
thirst, when all at once the fog lifted, like the foot of a 
sail. I sprung to my feet. There was the blue sky 
overhead; but the terrible burning sun was there. A 
moment more and a light air blew on my cheek, and, 
turning my face to it as if it had been the very breath oi 
God, there was an island within half a mile, and I saw 
the shine of water on the face of a rock on the shore. 
I cried out, ‘ Land on the weather-quarter ! Water in 
sight ! ’ In a moment more a boat was lowered, and in 
a few minutes the boat’s crew, of which I was one, were 
lying, clothes and all, in a little stream that came down 
from the hills above. — There, Mr Walton ! that ’s what I 
wanted to say to you.” 

This is as near the story of my old friend as my 
limited knowledge of sea affairs allows me to report it 


43 * 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIA 


understand you quite, Old Rogers, and I thank 
you heartily,” I said. 

‘‘No doubt,” resumed he, “ King Solomon was quite 
right, as he always was, I suppose, in what he said^ foi 
his wisdom mun ha^ laid mostly in the tongue — right, I 
say, when he said, ‘ Boast not thyself of to-morrow ; for 
thou knowest not what a day may bring forth ; ’ but I 
can’t help thinking there ’s another side to it I think 
it would be as good advice to a man on the other tack, 
whose boasting lay far to windward, and he close on a 
lee-shore wi’ breakers — it wouldn’t be amiss to say to 
him, ‘ Don’t strike your colours to the morrow ; for thou 
knowest not what a day may bring forth.’ There ’s just 
as many good days as bad ones ; as much fair weather 
as foul in the days to come. And if a man keeps up 
heart, he ’s all the better for that, and none the worse 
when the evil day does come. But, God forgive me 1 
I ’m talking like a heathen. As if there was any chance 
about what the days would bring forth. No, my lad,” 
said the old sailor, assuming the dignity of his superior 
years under the inspiration of the truth, “ boast nor trusf 
nor hope in the morrow. Boast and trust and hope in 
God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health o/ 
thy countenance and thy God.” 

I could but hold out my hand. I had nothing to say 
For he had spoken to me as an angel of God. 

The old man was silent for some moments : his emo- 
tion needed time to still itself again. Nor did he return 
to the subject He held out his hand once more, say* 
ing— 


AH ANGBL UNAWARES. 


433 


" Good day, sir. I must go back to my work.** 

I will go back with you,” I returned. 

And so we walked back side by side to the village, 
but not a word did we speak the one to the other, till we 
shook hands and parted upon the bridge, where we had 
first met Old Rogers went to his work, and I lingered 
upon the bridge. I leaned upon the low parapet, and 
looked up the stream as far as the mists creeping about 
the banks, and hovering in thinnest veils over the surface 
of the water, would permit Then 1 turned and looked 
down the river crawling on to the sweep it made out of 
sight just where Mr Brownrigg’s farm began to come 
down to its banks. Then I looked to the left, and 
there stood my old church, as quiet in the dreary day, 
though not so bright, as in the sunshine : even the graves 
themselves must look yet more “solemn sad” in a 
wintry day like this, than they look when the sunlight 
that infolds them proclaims that God is not the God of 
the dead but of the living. One of the great battles 
that we have to fight in this world — for twenty great 
battles have to be fought all at once and in one — is the 
battle with appearances. I turned me to the right, and 
there Ow:ce more I saw, as on that first afternoon, the 
weathercock that watched the winds over the stables at 
Oldcastle HalL It had caught just one glimpse of the 
sun through some rent in the vapours, and flung it across 
to me, ere it vanished again amid the general dinginess 
of the hour. 


i 


CHAPTER XXV. 


TWO PARISHIONER& 

H HAVE said, near the Deginning of my story, 
that my parish was a large one : how is it 
that I have mentioned but one of the great 
families in it, and have indeed confined my 
recollections entirely to the village and its immediate 
neighbourhood 1 Will my reader have patience while I 
explain this to him a little? First, as he may have 
observed, my personal attraction is towards the poor 
rather than the rich. I was made so. I can generally 
get nearer the poor than the rich. But I say generally^ 
for I have known a few rich people quite as much to 
my mind as the best of the poor. Thereupon, of course, 
their education would give them the advantage with me 
in the possibilities of communioiL But when the heart 
is right, and there is a good stock of common sense as 
well, — a gift predominant, as far as I am aware, in no 
one class over ar other, education will turn the seals 


TWO PARISHIONSRS. 


43S 


very gently with me. And then when I reflect that 
some of these poor people would have made nobler 
ladies and gentlemen than all but two or three I know, 
if they had only had the opportunity, there is a reaction 
towards the poor, something like a feeling of favour 
because they have not had fair play — a feeling soon 
modified, though not altered, by the reflection that they 
are such because God who loves them better than we 
do, has so ordered their lot, and by the recollection that 
not only was our Lord himself poor, but He said the 
poor were blessed. And let me just say in passing that 
I not only believe it because He said it, but I believe it 
because I see that it is so. I think sometimes that the 
world must have been especially created for the poor, 
and that particular allowances will be made for the rich 
because they are bom into such disadvantages, and with 
their wickednesses and their miseries, their love of 
spiritual dirt and meanness, subserve the highest growth 
and emancipation of the poor, that they may inherit 
both the earth and the kingdom of heaven. 

But I have been once more wandering from my sub- 
ject. 

Thus it was that the people in the village lying close 
to my door attracted most of my attention at first ; of 
which attention those more immediately associated with 
the village, as, for instance, the inhabitants of the Hall, 
lame in for a share, although they did not belong to the 
same class. 

Again, the houses of most of the gentlefolk lay con 
siderably apart from the church and from each other. 


436 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Many of them went elsewhere to church, and I did ns^l 
feel bound to visit those, for I had enough to occupy me 
without, and had little chance of getting a hold of them 
to do them good. Still there were one or two families 
which I would have visited oftener, I confess, had I been 
more interested in them, or had I had a horse. There 
fore, I ought to have bought a horse sooner than I did. 
Before this winter was over, however, I did buy one, 
partly to please Dr Duncan, who urged me to it for the 
sake of my health, partly because I could then do my 
duty better, and partly, I confess, from having been very 
fond of an old mare of my father’s, when I was a boy, 
living, after my mother’s death, at a farm of his in 
B — shire. Happening to come across a gray mare very 
much like her, I bought her at once. 

I think it was the very day after the events recorded 
in my last chapter that I mounted her to pay a visit to 
two rich maiden ladies, whose carriage stopped at the 
Lych-gate most Sundays when the weather was favour 
able, but whom I had called upon only once since I 
came to the parish. I should not have thought this visit 
worth mentioning, except for the conversation I had 
with them, during which a hint or two were dropped 
which had an influence in colouring my thoughts for 
some time after. 

I was shown with much ceremony by a butler, as old 
apparently as his livery of yellow and green, into the 
presence of the two ladies, one of whom sat in state 
reading a volume of the Spectator, She was very tall, 
and as square as the straight long-backed chair upon 


TWO PARISHIONERS. 


43 ? 


which she sat A fat asthmatic poodle lay at her feet 
upon the hearth-rug. The other, a little lively gray- 
haired creature, who looked like a most ancient girl 
whom no power of gathering years would ever make old, 
was standing upon a high chair, making love to a demo- 
niacal-looking cockatoo in a gilded cage. As I entered 
the room, the latter all but jumped from her perch with 
a merry though wavering laugh, and advanced to meet 
me. 

Jonathan, bring the cake and wine,” she cried to 
the retreating servant. 

The former rose with a solemn stiff-backedness, which 
was more amusing than dignified, and extended her hand 
as I approached her, without moving from her place. 

“ We were afraid, Mr Walton,” said the little lady, 
“ that you had forgotten we were parishioners of yours.” 

‘‘ That I c -^uld hardly do,” I answered, seeing you 
are such regular attendants at church. But I confess I 
have given you ground for your rebuke. Miss Crowther. 
I bought a horse, however, the other day, and this is 
the first use I have put him to.” 

“ We ’re charmed to see you. It is very good of you 
not to forget such uninteresting girls as we are.” 

“You forget, Jemima,” interposed her sister, in a 
feminine bass, “that time is always on the wing. I 
should have thought we were both decidedly middle- 
aged, though you are the elder by I will not say how 
many years.” 

** All but ten years, Hester. I remember rocking you 
in your cradle scores of times. But somehow, Mr Wal 


438 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


ton, I can’t help feeling as if she were my elder sister 
She is so learned, you see ; and I don’t read anything 
but the newspapers.” 

“ And your Bible, Jemima. Do yourself justice.” 

“ That ’s a matter of course, sister. But this is not the 
way to entertain Mr Walton.” 

“ The gentlemen used to entertain the ladies when 1 
was young, Jemima. I do not know how it may have 
been when you were.” 

“ Much the same, I believe, sister. But if you look 
at Mr Walton, I think you will see that he is pretty much 
entertained as it is.” 

“ I agree with Miss Hester,” I said. ** It is the duty 
of gentlemen to entertain ladies. But it is so much the 
kinder of ladies when they surpass their duty, and con- 
descend to entertain gentlemen.” 

‘‘ What can surpass duty, Mr Walton 1 I confess I do 
not agree with your doctrines upon that point” 

“ I do not quite understand you, Miss Hester,” I 
returned. 

“Why, Mr Walton — I hope you will not think me 
rude, but it always seems to me — ani it has given me 
much pain, when I consider that youi congregation is 
chiefly composed of the lower classes, who may be 
greatly injured by such a style of preaching. I must 
say I think so, Mr Walton. Only perhaps you are one 
of those who think a lady’s opinion on such matters is 
worth nothing.” 

“ On the contrary, I respect an opinion just as far as 
the lady or gentleman who holds it seems me qualified 


TWO PARISHIONERB. 


439 


to have formed it first. But you have not yet told me 
what you think so objectionable in my preaching.” 

“ You always speak as if faith in Christ was something* 
greater than duty. Now I think duty the first thing.” 

“ I quite agree with you, Miss Crowther. For hoM 
can I, or any clergyman, urge a man to that which i* 
not his duty 1 But tell me, is not faith in Christ a duty I 
Where you have mistaken me is, that you think I speak 
of faith as higher than duty, when indeed I speak o 
faith as higher than any of/ier duty. It is the highest 
duty of mam I do not say the duty he always sees 
clearest, or even sees at all. But the fact is, that when 
that which is a duty becomes the highest delight of a 
man, the joy of his very being, he no more thinks or 
needs to think about it as a duty. What would you 
think of the love of a son who, when an appeal was 
made to his affections, should say, ‘ Oh yes, I love my 
mother dearly : it is my duty, of course ? ’ ” 

“ Tliat sounds very plausible, Mr Walton ; but still I 
cannot help feeling that you preach faith and not works. 
I do not say that you are not to preach faith, of course ; 
but you know faith without works is dead.” 

“Now, really, Hester,” interposed Miss Jemima, “I 
cannot think how it is, but, for my part, I should have 
said that Mr Walton was constantly preaching works. 
He’s always telling you to do something or other. I 
know I always come out of the church with something 
on my mind; and I’ve got to work it off* somehow 
before I ’m comfortable.” 

And here Miss Jemima got up on the chair again, and 


440 


ANNALf OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD^ 


began to flirt with the cockatoo once more, but only in 
silent signs. 

I cannot quite recall how this part of the conversation 
drew to a close. But I will tell a fact or two about the 
sisters which may possibly explain how it was that they 
took up such different notions of my preaching. The 
elder scarce left the house, but spent almost the whole 
of her time in reading small dingy books of eighteenth 
century literature. She believed in no other; thought 
Shakespeare sentimental where he was not low, and 
Bacon pompous; Addison thoroughly respectable and 
gentlemanly. Pope was the great English poet, incom- 
parably before Milton. The “ Essay on Man ” con- 
tained the deepest wisdom ; the “ Rape of the Lock ” 
the most graceful imagination to be found in the lan- 
guage. The “ Vicar of Wakefield ” was pretty, but fool- 
ish; while in philosophy, Paley was perfect, especially 
in his notion of happiness, which she had heard objected 
to, and therefore warmly defended. Somehow or other, 
respectability — in position, in morals, in religion, in con- 
duct — ^was everything. The consequence was that her 
very nature was old-fashioned, and had nothing in it of 
that lasting youth which is the birthright — so often de- 
spised — of every immortal being. But I have already 
said more about her than her place in my story justifies. 

Miss Crowther, on the contrary, whose eccentricities 
did not lie on the side of respectability, had gone on 
.shocking the stiff proprieties of her younger sister till 
she could be shocked no more, and gave in as to the 
hopelessness of flite. She had had a severe disappoint* 


TWO PARISHIONERS. 


ment in youth, had not only survived it, but saved hei 
heart alive out of it, losing only, as far as appeared to 
the eyes of her neighbours at least, any remnant of selfish 
care about herself; and she now spent the love which 
had before been concentrated upon one object, upon 
every living thing that came near her, even to her sister’s 
sole favourite, the wheezing poodle. She was very odd, 
it must be confessed, with her gray hair, her clear gray 
eye with wrinkled eyelids, her light step, her laugh at 
once girlish and cracked ; darting in and out of the cot- 
tages, scolding this matron with a lurking smile in every 
tone, hugging that baby, boxing the ears of the other 
little tyrant, passing this one’s rent, and threatening that 
other with awful vengeances, but it was a very lovely 
oddity. Their property was not large, and she knew 
every living thing on the place down to the dogs and 
pigs. And Miss Jemima, as the people always called 
her, transferring the Miss Crowther of primogeniture to 
the younger, who kept, like King Henry IV., — 

“ Her presence, like a robe pontifical. 

Ne’er seen but wonder’d at,” 

was the actual queen of the neighbourhood ; for, though 
she was the very soul of kindness, she was determined 
to have her own way, and had it 

Although I did not know all this at the time, such 
were the two ladies who held these different opinions 
about my preaching ; the one who did nothing but read 
Messrs Addison, Pope, Paley, and Co., considering that 
X neglected the doctrine of works as the seal of faith, 
and the one who was busy helping her neighbours from 


443 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


morning to night, finding little in my prc?.ching, except 
incentive to benevolence. 

The next point where my recollection can take up the 
conversation, is where Miss Hester made the following 
further criticism on my pulpit labours. 

“You are too anxious to explain everything, Mr 
Walton.” 

I pause in my recording, to do my critic the justice of 
remarking that what she said looks worse on paper than 
it sounded from her lips ; for she was a gentlewoman, 
and the tone has much to do with the impression made 
by the intellectual contents of all speech. 

“ Where can be the use of trying to make uneducated 
people see the grounds of everything ? ” she said. “ It 
is enough that this or that is in the Bible.” 

“Yesj but there is just the point What is in the 
Bible 1 Is it this or that?” 

“ You are their spiritual instructor ; tell them what is 
in the Bible.” 

“ But you have just been objecting to my mode of 
representing what is in the Bible.” 

“ It will be so much the worse, if you add argument 
to convince them of what is incorrect.” 

“ I doubt that. Falsehood will expose itself the soorer 
that honest argument is used to support it” 

“ You cannot expect them to judge of what you tell 
them.” 

The Bible urges upon us to search and understand.” 

“ I grant that for those whose business it is^ like your- 
self.” 


TWO PARISHIONEK8. 


443 


" Do you think, then, that the Church consists of a 
few privileged to understand, and a great many who can* 
not understand, and therefore need not be taught V* 

“ I said you had to teach them.” 

“ But to teach is to make people understand.** 

“ I don’t think so. If you come to that, how much 
can the wisest of us understand 1 You remember what 
Pope says, — 

‘ Superior beings, when of late they saw 
A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law, 

Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, 

And show’d a Newton as we show an ape’ t” 

“ I do not know the passage. Pope is not my Bible. 
I should call such superior beings very inferior beings 
indeed.” 

“ Do you call the angels inferior beings ? ** 

“ Such angels, certainly.” 

“ He means the good angels, of course.** 

“ And I say the good angels could never behave like 
that, for contempt is one of the lowest spiritual condi- 
tions in which any being can place himself. Our Lord 
says, ‘ Take heed that ye despise not one of these little 
ones for theii angels do always behold the face of my 
Father, who is in heaven.* ” 

** Now will you even say that you understand that 
passage 1 ” 

Practically, well enough ; just as the poorest man of 
my congregation may understand it. I am not to de- 
spise one of the little ones. Pope represents the angelf 
as despising a Newton even.” 


444 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ And you despise Pope.” 

“I hope not. I say he was full of despising, and 
therefore, if for no other reason, a small man.” 

‘‘Surely you do not jest at his bodily infirmities]” 

“ I had forgotten them quite.’' 

“ In every other sense he was a great man.” 

“ I cannot allow it. He was intellectually a great 
man, but morally a small man.” 

“ Such refinements are not easily followed.” 

“ I will undertake to make the poorest woman in my 
congregation understand that.” 

“ Why don’t you try your friend Mrs Oldcastle, then 1 
It might do her a little good,” said Miss Hester, now 
becoming, I thought, a little spiteful at hearing her 
favourite treated so unceremoniously. I found after- 
wards that there was some kindness in it, however. 

“ I should have very little influence with Mrs Old- 
castlc if I were to make the attempt. But I am not 
called upon to address my flock individually upon ever,y 
point of character.” 

“ I thought she was an intimate friend of yours.” 

“ Quite the contrary. We are scarcely friendly.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it,” said Miss Jemima, who 
had been silent during the little controversy that her 
sister and I had been carrying on. “We have been 
quite misinformed. The fact is, we thought we might 
have seen more of you if it had not been for her. And 
as very few people of her own position in society care to 
visit her, we thought it a pity she should be your prin- 
eijm! friend in the parish.” 


TWO PARISHIONERS, 


445 


“ ^Vhy do they not visit her more ? ” 

** There are strange stories about her, which it is as 
wel. to leave alone. They are getting out of date too. 
But she is not a fit woman to be regarded as the clergy- 
man's friend. There!” said Miss Jemima, as if she 
had wanted to relieve her bosom of a burden, and had 
done it 

“ I think, however, her religious opinions would cor- 
respond with your own, Mr Walton,” said Miss Hester. 

“ Possibly,” I answered, with indifference ; ‘‘ I don’t 
care much about opinion.” 

‘‘ Her daughter would be a nice girl, I fancy, if she 
weren't kept down by her mother. She looks scared, 
poor thing ! And they say she ’s not quite — the thing, 
you know,” said Miss Jemima. 

“ What do you mean. Miss Crowther t ” 

She gently tapped her forehead with a forefinger. 

I laughed. I thought it was not worth my while to 
enter as the champion of Miss Oldcastle’s sanity. 

“They are, and have been, a strange family as far 
back as I can remember ; and my mother used to say 
the same. I am glad she comes to our church now. 
Vou mustn’t let her set her cap at you, though, Mr 
Walton. It wouldn’t do at all She’s pretty enough, 
too!” 

“ Yes,” I returned, she is rather pretty. But I don’t 
diink she looks as if she had a cap to set at anybody.” 

I rose to go, for I did not relish any further pursuit ol 
the conversation in the same direction. 

1 rode home slowly, brooding on the lovely marvel, 


446 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


that out of such a rough ungracious stem as the Old 
castle family, should have sprung such a delicate, pale, 
winter-braved flower, as Ethelw)m. And I prayed that 
I might be honoured to rescue her from the ungenial 
soil and atmosphere to which the machinations of her 
mother threatened to confine her for the rest of a suffer 
ing life. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


SATAN CAST OUT. 

WAS within a mile of the village, return 
ing from my visit to the Misses Crowther, 
when my horse, which was walking slowly 
along the soft side of the road, lifted his 
head, and pricked up his ears at the sound, which 
he heard first, of approaching hoofs. The riders soon 
rame in sight — Miss Oldcastle, Judy, and Captain Ever- 
ard. Miss Oldcastle I had never seen on horseback 
before. Judy was on a little white pony she used to 
gallop about the fields near the Hall. The Captain was 
laughing and chatting gaily as they drew near, now to 
the one, now to the other. Being on my own side of 
the road I held straight on, not wishing to stop or to 
reveal the signs of a distress which had almost over- 
whelmed me. I felt as cold as death, or rather as if my 
whole being had been deprived of vitality by a sudden 
exhaustion around me of the ethereal element of life. I 



44^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


believe I did not alter my bearing, but remained with 
my head bent, for I had been thinking hard just before, 
till we were on the point of meeting, when I lifted my 
hat to Miss Oldcastle without drawing bridle, and went 
on. The Captain returned my salutation, and likewise 
rode on. I could just see, as they passed me, that Miss 
Oldcastle’s pale face was flushed even to scarlet, but she 
only bowed and kept alongside of her companion. I 
thought I had escaped conversation, and had gone about 
twenty yards farther, wl>en I heard the clatter of Judy’s 
pony behind me, and up she came at full gallop. 

“ Why didn’t you stop to speak to us, Mr Walton 1 ’* 
she said. “ I pulled up, but you never looked at me. 
We shall be cross all the rest of the day, because you 
cut us so. What have we done 1 ” 

‘‘ Nothing, Judy, that I know of,” I answered, trying 
to speak cheerfully. “ But 1 do not know your com- 
panion, and I was not in the humour for an introduction.** 
She looked hard at me with her keen gray eyes ; and 
I felt as if the child was seeing through me. 

“ I don’t know what to make of it, Mr Walton. 
You’re very different somehow from what you used to 
be. There ’s something wrong somewhere. But I sup- 
pose you would all tell me it *s none of my business. So 
I won’t ask questions. Only I wish I could do anything 
for you.” 

I felt the child’s kindness, but could only say — 

“ Thank you, Judy. I am sure I should ask you if 
there were anything you could do for me. But you *11 
be left behind.” 












>,^. '■ 




'Tx 


.> 1 




- * ^ ♦ • • 

•rr- *^ *• ' ' * ^ 

v= . - 'j-J^y^- ^ > 

V* W* > 



i 5 ^V 


^??>»^'-V ..f 


* J:T .f! 









-'■ ii'^ ' ■' 4i'7-'^ •»'■••■ X- ^ ■ ' 
• - • ^ - ' { ^ ^ 


-ii- 


«J* 


M iJ 


^ ^ •• *Va t >* -O iw^* V ^ X* - o ^ ♦JKjp^ E *r^ ' 

.>-aK3 ^ -^ M i :/^:.: - • 'v''.-33 


» ^ 


f. .‘.. ■ ,. tr^r 



^ ?. 4 ; v: 



4 t»V 

. j 




i » -^ 



■- % ^ VsV ^ 

|,v' , ■ V ...T ■ 


^ *. 5 . 


•- 5 ^ 


■Bh*C •• • •'! • *<! T* 


- - -t X'** ' * ^ -i jt. K . . '/-^ ■J^.v f 

^ '^A'%»> ^ . V..,^ 



^ * x-r •- ' S ^ ^ ; - 1 * ' J»» • - 

►■ ' -ir. ' • •■a-'^- :■•' .' ^ • 

t • »^ '-Vw ^ • ■ - --• 


I — 


1 *. -• 








“ ■ ‘-*'^'T?r 


- Uai -ii -' %'*:*^ i\ '’-’l:,’'^'^jt':o' ■ ??-*/3WP 

*•' '•' ^ * -* v- lA m!^ * -y* 

^ ^ ^ /- - r ^QqriBMBu«Crn 


fE£' 




*J 








BUT KEPT UNCONSCIOUSLY STROKING MY HORSE’s NECK 




SATAN CAST OUT. 


449 


‘‘No fear of that. My Dobbin can go much fastei 
than their big horses. But I see you don’t want me. so 
good-bye.*' 

She turned her pony's head as she spoke, jumped the 
ditch at the side of the road, and flew after them along 
the grass like a swallow. I likewise roused my horse 
and went off at a hard trot, with the vain impulse so to 
shake off the tormenting thoughts that crowded on me 
like gadflies. But this day was to be one of more trial 
still. 

As I turned a c orner, almost into the street of the 
village, Tom Weii was at my side. He had evidently 
been watching fnr me. His face was so pale, that I saw 
in a moment sr/mething had happened. 

“What is tae matter, Tom?” I asked, in some alarm. 

He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously 
stroking 'my horse’s neck, and staring at me “ with wide 
blue eyes.’* 

“ Come, Tom,” I repeated, “ tell me what is the 
matter.” 

I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the 
motion of a serpent, before he could utter the words. 

“ Kate has killed her little boy, sir.” 

He followed them with a stifled cry — almost a screanii 
and hid his face in his hands. 

“ God forbid !” I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my 
horse’s sides, nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste. 

“ She ’s mad, sir ; she ’s mad,” he cried, as I rode off 

“ Come after me,” I said, “ and take the mare homa 
1 shan’t be able to leave your sister.** 


4^0 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD^ 


Had I had a share, by my harsh words, in driving tha 
woman beyond the bounds of human reason and endui- 
ance ? The thought was dreadful. But I must not let 
m> mind rest on it now, lest I should be unfitted for 
what might have to be done. Before I reached the door, 
I saw a little crowd of the villagers, mostly women and 
children, gathered about it. I got off my horse, and 
gave him to a woman to hold till Tom should come up. 
With a little difficulty, I prevailed on the rest to go home 
at once, and not add to the confusions and tenors of 
the unhappy affair by the excitement of their presence. 
As soon as they had yielded to my arguments, I entered 
the shop, which to my annoyance I found full of the 
neighbours. These likewise I got rid of as soon as pos- 
sible, and locking the door behind them, went up to the 
room above. 

To my surprise, I found no one there. On the hearth 
and in the fender lay two little pools of blood. All in 
the house was utterly still. It was very dreadful. I 
went to the only other door. It was not bolted as I 
had expected to find it. I opened it, peeped in, and 
entered. On the bed lay the mother, white as death, 
but with her black eyes wide open, staring at the ceil- 
ing : and on her arm lay little Gerard, as white, except 
where the blood had flowed from the bandage that coula 
not confine it, down his sweet deathlike face. His eyes 
were fast closed, and he had no sign of life about him. 
I shut the door behind me, and approached the bed. 
When Catherine caught sight of me, she showed no sur 


SATAN CAST OUT. 45I 


prise or emotion of any kind. Her lips, with automaton 
like movement, uttered the words — 

“ I have done it at last I am ready. Take me away. 
I shall be hanged. I don’t care. I confess it Only 
don’t let the people stare at me.” 

Her lips went on moving, but I could hear no more 
till suddenly she broke out — 

‘‘ Oh ! my baby ! my baby ! ” and gave a cry of such 
agony as I hope never to hear again while I live. 

. At this moment I heard a loud knocking at the shop- 
door, which was the only entrance to the house, and 
remembering that I had locked it, I went down to sep 
who was there. I found Thomas Weir, the father, ac 
companied by Dr Duncan, whom, as it happened, he 
had had some difficulty in finding. Thomas had sped 
to his daughter the moment he heard the rumour of what 
had happened, and his fierceness in clearing the shop 
had at least prevented the neighbours, even in his ab- 
sence, from intruding further. 

We went up together to Catherine’s room. Thomas 
said nothing to me about what had happened, and I 
found it difficult even to conjecture from his countenance 
what thoughts were passing through his mind. 

Catherine looked from one to another of us, as if she 
did not know the one from the other. She made no 
motion to rise from her bed, nor did she utter a word, 
although her lips would now and then move as if mould- 
ing a sentence. When Dr Duncan, after looking at the 
child, proceeded to take him from her, she gave him one 


45> ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


imploring look, and yielded with a moan ; then began 
CO stare hopelessly at the ceiling again. The doctor car- 
ried the child into the next room, and the grandfather 
followed. 

“ You see what you have driven me to !” cried Cathe- 
rine, the moment I was left alone with her. “ I hope 
you are satisfied.” 

The words went to my very soul. But when I looked 
at her, her eyes were wandering about over the ceiling, 
and I had and still have difficulty in believing that s\\q 
spoke the words, and that they were not an illusion of 
my sense, occasioned by the commotion of my own feel- 
ings. I thought it better, however, to leave her, and 
join the others in the sitting-room. The first thing I 
saw there was Thomas on his knees, with a basin of 
water, washing away the blood of his grandson from his 
daughter’s floor. The very sight of the child had hitherto 
been nauseous to him, and his daughter had been be- 
yond the reach of his forgiveness. Here was the end of 
it — the blood of the one shed by the hand of the other, 
and the father of both, who had disdained both, on his 
knees, wiping it up. Dr Duncan was giving the child 
brandy; for he had found that he had been sick, and 
that the loss of blood was the chief cause of his condition. 
The blood flowed from a wound on the head, extending 
backwards from the temple, which had evidently been 
occasioned by a fall upon the fender, where the blood 
lay both inside and out ; and the doctor took the sick- 
ness as a sign that the brain had not been seriously 
injured by the blow. In a few minutes he said — 


SATAN CAST OUT. 


453 


“ I think he ’ll come round.” 

“ Will it be safe to tell his mother so ? ” I asked. 

** Yes : I think you may.” 

I hastened to her room. 

“Your little darling is not dead, Catherine. He is 
coming to.” 

She threw herself off the bed at my feet, caught them 
round with her arms, and cried — 

“ I will forgive him. I will do anything you like. I 
forgive George Everard. I will go and ask my father to 
forgive me.” 

I lifted her in my arms — how light she was ! — and laid 
her again on the bed, where she burst into tears, and lay 
sobbing and weeping. I went to the other room. Little 
Gerard opened his eyes and closed them again, as I 
entered. The doctor had laid him in his own crib. He 
said his pulse was improving. I beckoned to Thomas. 
He followed me. 

“ She wants to ask you to forgive her,” I said. “ Do 
not, in God s name, wait till she asks you, but go and 
tell her that you forgive her.” 

“ I dare not say I forgive her,” he answered. “ I 
have more need to ask her to forgive me.” 

I took him by the hand, and led him into her room. 
She feebly lifted her arms towards him. Not a word 
was said on either side. I left them in each otlier’s 
embrace. The hard rocks had been struck with the 
rod, and the waters of life had flowed forth from each, 
and had met between. 

1 have more than once known this in the course of 


f54 AHNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


my experience — the ice and snow of a long estrangement 
suddenly give way, and the boiling geyser-floods of old 
affection rush from the hot deeps of the heart I thinV 
myself that the very lastingness and strength of animo 
sity have their origin sometimes in the reality of affec- 
tion: the love lasts all the while, freshly indignant at 
every new load heaped upon it ; till, at last, a word, a 
look, a sorrow, a gladness, sets it free ; and, forgetting 
all its claims, it rushes irresistibly towards its ends. 
Thus was it with Thomas and Catherine Weir. 

When I rejoined Dr Duncan, I found little Gerard 
asleep, and breathing quietly. 

“ What do you know of this sad business, Mr Wal- 
ton?” said the doctor. 

** I should like to ask the same question of you,” I 
returned. “Young Tom told me that his sister had 
murdered the child. That is all I know.” 

“ His father told me the same ; and that is all I know. 
Do you believe it ? ** 

“ At least we have no evidence about it. It is toler- 
ably certain neither of those two could have been pre 
sent. They must have received it by report. We must 
wait till she is able to explain the thing herself.” 

“ Meantime,” said Dr Duncan, “ all I believe is, that 
she struck the child, and that he fell upon the fender.” 

I may as well inform my reader that, as far as Cather- 
ine could give an account of the transaction, this conjec- 
ture was corroborated. But the smallest reminder of it 
evidently filled her with such a horror of self-loatliing, 
that I took care to avoid the subject entirely, after the 


SATAN CAST OUT. 


455 


attempt at explanation which she made at my request 
She could not remember with any clearness what had 
happened. All she remembered was that she had been 
more miserable than ever in her life before; that the 
child had come to her, as he seldom did, with some 
childish request or other; that she felt herself seized 
with intense hatred of him ; and the next thing she knew 
was that his blood was running in a long red finger 
towards her. Then it seemed as if that blood had been 
drawn from her own over-charged heart and brain ; she 
knew what she had done, though she did not know how 
she had done it; and the tide of her ebbed affection 
flowed like the returning waters of the Solway. But be- 
yond her restored love, she remembered nothing more 
that happened till she lay weeping with the hope that 
the child would yet live. Probably more particulars 
returned afterwards, but I took care to ask no more 
questions. In the increase of illness that followed, I 
more than once saw her shudder while she slept, and 
thought she was dreaming what her waking memory had 
forgotten ; and once she started awake, crying, “ I have 
murdered him again.^* 

To return to that first evening ; — When Thomas came 
from his daughter's room, he looked like a man from 
ffhom the bitterness of evil had passed away. To human 
eyes, at least, it seemed as if self had been utterly slain 
in him. His face had that child-like expression in its 
paleness, and the tearfulness without tears haunting his 
eyes, which reminds one of the feeling of an evening in 
summer between which and the sultry day preceding i| 


456 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOa 


has fallen the gauzy veil of a cooling shower, with a 
rainbow in the east. 

“ She is asleep,” he said. 

“How is it your daughter Mary is not here?” 1 
asked. 

“ She was taken with a fit the moment she heard the 
bad news, sir. I left her with nobody but father. J 
think I must go and look after her now. It ’s not the 
first she’s had neither, though I never told any one 
before. You won’t mention it, sir. It makes people 
look shy at you, you know, sir.” 

“ Indeed, I won’t mention it. — Then she mustn’t sit 
up, and two nurses will be wanted here. You and I 
must take it to-night, Thomas. You ’ll attend to your 
daughter, if she wants anything, and I know this little 
darling won’t be frightened if he comes to himself, and 
sees me beside him.” 

“ God bless you, sir,” said Thomas, fervently. 

And from that hour to this there has never been a 
coolness between us. 

“ A very good arrangement,” said Dr Duncan ; “ only 
I feel as if I ought to have a share in it.” 

“ No, no,” I said. “ We do not know who may want 
you. Besides, we are both younger than you.” 

“ I will come over early in the morning then, and see 
how you arc going on.” 

As soon as Thomas returned with good news of 
Mary’s recovery, I left him, and went home to tell my 
sister, and arrange for the night. We carried back with 
as what things we could think of to make the two 


SATAN CAST OUT. 


459 


patients as comfortable as possible ; for, as regarded 
Catherine, now that she would let her fellows help her, 
[ was even anxious that she should feel something of 
that love about her which she had so long driven from 
her door. I felt towards her somewhat as towards a 
new-born child, for whom this life of mingled weft must 
be made as soft as its material will admit of ; or rather, 
as if she had been my own sister, as indeed she was, 
returned from wandering in weary and miry ways, to 
taste once more the tenderness of home. I wanted her 
to read the love of God in the love that even I could 
show her. And, besides, I must confess that, although 
the result had been, in God’s great grace, so good, my 
heart still smote me for the severity with which I had 
spoken the truth to her ; and it was a relief to myself to 
endeavour to make some amends for having so spoken 
to her. But I had no intention of going near her that 
night, for I thought the less she saw of me the better, 
till she should be a little stronger, and have had time, 
with the help of her renewed feelings, to get over the 
painful associations so long accompanying the thought 
of me. So I took my place beside Gerard, and watched 
through the night. The little fellow repeatedly cried 
out in that terror which is so often the consequence of 
the loss of blood ; but when I laid my hand on him, he 
smiled without waking, and lay quite still again for a 
while. Once or twice he woke up, and looked so be- 
wildered that I feared delirium ; but a little jelly com- 
posed him, and he fell fast asleep again. He did nol 
•eem even to have headache from the blow. 


45^ ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


But when I was left alone with the child, seated in a 
chair 'by the fire, my only light, how my thoughts rushed 
upon the facts bearing on my own history which this day 
had brought before me ! Horror it was to think of Miss 
Oldcastle even as only riding with the seducer of Cather- 
ine Weir. There was torture in the thought of his touch- 
ing her hand ; and to think that before the summer came 
once more, he might be her husband ! I will not dwell 
on the sufferings of that night more than is needful ; for 
even now, in my old age, I cannot recall without renew- 
ing them. But I must indicate one train of thought 
which kept passing through my mind with constant 
recurrence ; — Was it fair to let her marry such a man in 
ignorance 1 Would she marry him if she knew what I 
knew of himi Could I speak against my rival? — 
blacken him even with the truth — the only defilement 
that can really cling ? Could I for my own dignity do 
so ? And was she therefore to be sacrificed in ignor- 
ance 1 Might not some one else do it instead of me ? 
But if I set it agoing, was it not precisely the same thing 
as if I did it myself, only more cowardly ? There Was 
but one way of doing it, and that was — with the full and 
solemn consciousness that it was and must be a barriei 
between us for ever. If I could give her up fully and 
altogether, then I might tell her the truth which was to 
preserve her from marrying such a man as my rival. And 
I must do so, sooner than that she, my very dream of 
purity and gentle truth, should wed defilement But 
how bittei to cast away my chance! as I said, in the 
gathering despair of that black night And although 


SATAN CAST OUT. 


45f 


every time I said it — for the same words would come 
over and over as in a delirious dream — I repeated yet 
again to myself that wonderful line of Spenser, — 

** It chanced— eternal God that chance did guide,” 

yet the words never grew into spirit in me ; they re« 
mained “ words, words, words,” and meant nothing to 
my feeling — hardly even to my judgment meant anything 
at alL Then came another bitter thought, the bitterness 
of which was wicked : it flashed upon me that my own 
earnestness with Catherine Weir, in urging her to the 
duty of forgiveness, would bear a main part in wrapping 
up in secrecy that evil thing which ought not to be hid. 
For had she not vowed — ^with the same facts before her 
which now threatened to crush my heart into a lump of 
clay — to denounce the man at the very altar 1 Had not 
the revenge which I had ignorantly combated been my 
best ally 1 And for one brief, black, wicked moment I 
repented that I had acted as I had acted. The next I 
was on my knees by the side of the sleeping child, and 
had repented back again in shame and sorrow. Then 
came the consolation that if I suffered hereby, I suffered 
from doing my duty. And that was well 

Scarcely had I seated myself again by the fire when 
the door of the room opened softly, and Thomas ap- 
peared. 

“ Kate is very strange, sir,*' he said, " and wants to 
see yoiL” 

I rose at once. 

Perhaps, then, you had better stay with Gerard* 


460 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** I will, sir ; for I think she wants to speak to you 
alone.” 

I entered her chamber. A candle stood on a chest ol 
duwers, and its light fell on her face, once more flushed 
in those two spots with the glow of the unseen fire of 
disease. Her eyes, too, glittered again, but the fierce- 
ness was gone, and only the suffering remained. I drew 
a chair beside her, and took her hand. She yielded it 
willingly, even returned the pressure of kindness which 
I ofiered to the thin trembling fingers. 

“ You are too good, sir,” she said. “ I want to tell 
you all. He promised to marry me. I believed him. 
But I did very wrong. And I have been a bad mother 
for I could not keep from seeing his face in Gerard’s 
Gerard was the name he told me to call him when I had 
to write to him, and so I named the little darling Gerard. 
How is he, sir 1 ” 

“ Doing nicely,” I replied. ** I do not think you need 
be at all uneasy about him now.” 

“ Thank God. I forgive his father now with all my 
heart. I feel it easier since I saw how wicked I could 
be myself. And I feel it easier, too, that I have not 
long to live. I forgive him with all my heart, and I will 
take no revenge. I will not tell one who he is. I have 
never told any one yet. But I will tell you. His name 
is George Everard — Captain Everard. I came to know 
him when I was apprenticed at Addicehead. I would 
not tell you, sir, if I did not know that you will not tell 
any one. I know you so well that I will not ask you 
not 1 saw him yesterday, and it drove me wild. Bui 


SATAW CAST OUT. 


461 


it is all over now. My heart feels so cool now. Do you 
think God will forgive me 1 ” 

Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket 
Testament and read these words : — 

“ For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly 
Father will also forgive you.” 

Then I read to her, from the seventh chapter of St 
Luke’s Gospel, the story of the woman who was a sinner 
and came to Jesus in Simon’s house, that she might sec 
how the Lord himself thought and felt about such. When 
I had finished, I found that she was gently weeping, and 
so I left her, and resumed my place beside the boy. 1 
told Thomas that he had better not go near her just 
yet. So we sat in silence together for a while, during 
which I felt so weary and benumbed, that I neither 
cared to resume my former train of thought, nor to enter 
upon the new one suggested by the confession of Cathe- 
rine. I believe I must have fallen asleep in my chair, 
for I suddenly returned to consciousness at a cry from 
Gerard. I started up, and there was the child fast 
asleep, but standing on his feet in his crib, pushing with * 
his hands from before him, as if resisting some one, and 
crying — 

“Don’t Don’t Go away, man. Mammy! Mr 
Walton !” 

I took him in my arms, and kissed him, and laid him 
down again; and he lay as still as if he had never 
moved. At the same moment, Thomas came again into 
the room. 

“ I am sorry to be so troublesome, sir,” he said; “bul 


462 ANNALS OF A QUIET NBIGHBOUEHOOIX 


my poor daughter says there is one thing more she wanted 
to say to you.” 

I returned at once. As soon as I entered the room, 
she said eagerly : — 

“ I forgive him — I forgive him with all my heart ; but 
don’t let him take Gerard.” 

I assured her I would do my best to prevent any such 
attempt on his part, and making her promise to try to 
go to sleep, left her once more. Nor was either of the 
patients disturbed again durjng the night Both slept, 
as it appeared, refreshingly. 

In the morning, that is, before eight o’clock, the old 
doctor made his welcome appearance, and pronounced 
both quite as well as he had expected to find them. In 
another hour, he had sent young Tom to take my place, 
and my sister to take his father’s. I was determined 
that none of the gossips of the village should go near 
the invalid if I could help it ; for, though such might be 
kind-hearted and estimable women, their place was not 
by such a couch as that of Catherine Weir. I enjoined 
my sister to be very gentle in her approaches to her, to 
be careful even not to seem anxious to serve her, and so 
to allow her to get gradually accustomed to her presence, 
not showing herself for the first day more than she could 
help, and yet taking good care she should have every- 
tliing she wanted. Martha seemed to understand me 
perfectly ; and I left her in charge with the more con- 
fidence that I knew Dr Duncan would call several times 
in the course of the day. As for Tom, I had equal 
assurance that he would attend to orders ; and as Gerard 


tATAN CAST OUT. 


4 «: 


W2LS very fond of him, I dismissed all anxiety about botl\ 
and allowed my mind to return with fresh avidity to 
the contemplation of its own cares, and fears, and per 
plexities. 

It was of no use trying to go to sleep, so 1 set out foi 

% walk, 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE MAN AND THE CHILD. 



r was a fine frosty morning, the invigorating 
influences of which, acting along with the 
excitement following immediately upon a 
sleepless night, overcame in a great measm* 
the depression occasioned by the contemplation of my 
circumstances. Disinclined notwithstanding for any 
more pleasant prospect, I sought the rugged common 
where I had so lately met Catherine Weir in the storm 
and darkness, and where I had stood without knowing 
it upon the very verge of the precipice down which my 
fate was now threatening to hurl me. I reached the 
same cliasm in which I had sought a breathing space 
on that night, and turning into it, sat down upon a block 
of sand which the frost had detached from the wall 
above. And now the tumult began again in my mind, 
revolving around the vortex of a new centre of difficulty. 

For, fii-st of all, I found my mind relieved by the tiud 



THE MAN AND THE CHILD. 


465 


that, havinrr urged Catherine to a line of conduct which 
had lesiilted in confession, — a confession which, leav- 
ing all other considerations of my office out of view, 
had the greater claim upon my secrecy that it was made 
ti confidence in my uncovenanted honour, — I was not, 
;ould not be at liberty to disclose the secret she con- 
ided to me, which, disclosed by herself, would have 
>eep the revenge from which I had warned her, and at 
the same time my deliverance. I was relieved I say at 
first, by this view of the matter, because I might thui 
keep my o\vn chance of some favourable turn ; whereas, 
if I once told Miss Oldcastle, I must give her up for 
ever, as I had plainly seen in the watch of the preceding 
night But my love did not long remain skulking thus 
behind the hedge of honour. Suddenly I woke and saw 
that I was unworthy of the honour of loving her, for 
that I was glad to be compelled to risk her well-being 
for the chance of my own happiness ; a risk which in 
volved infinitely more wretchedness to her than the loss 
of my dearest hopes to me; for it is one thing for 
a man not to marry the woman he loves, and quite 
anothei for a woman to marry a man she cannot even 
respect. Had I not been withheld partly by my obliga- 
tion to Catherine, partly by the feeling that I ought to 
wait and see what God would do, I should have risen 
that moment and gone straight to Oldcastle Hall, that 
t might plunge at once into the ocean of my loss, and 
encounter, with the full sense of honourable degrada- 
tion, every misconstruction that might justly be devised 
of my conduct. For that I had given her up first could 

2 G 


^66 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


never be known even to her in this world. I could 
only save her by encountering and enduring and cherish- 
ing her scorn. At least so it seemed to me at the time ; 
and, although I am certain the other higher motives had 
much to do in holding me back, I am equally certain 
that this awful vision of the irrevocable fate to follow 
upon the deed, had great influence, as well, in inclining 
me to suspend action. 

I was still sitting in the hollow, when I heard the 
sound of horses’ hoofs in the distance, and felt a fore- 
boding of what would appear. I was only a few yards 
from the road upon which the sand-cleft opened, and 
could see a space of it sufficient to show the persons 
even of rapid riders. The sounds drew nearer. I could 
distinguish the step of a pony and the steps of two 
horses besides. Up they came and swept past — Miss 
Oldcastle upon Judy’s pony, and Mr Stoddart upon her 
horse, with the captain upon his own. How grateful 1 
felt to Mr Stoddart ! And the hope arose in me that 
he had accompanied them at Miss Oldcastle’s request. 

I had had no fear of being seen, sitting as I was on 
the side from which they came. One of the three, how- 
ever, caught a glimpse of me, and even in the moment 
ere she vanished I fancied I saw the lily-white grow 
rosy-red. But it must have been fancy, for she could 
hardly have been quite pale upon horseback on such a 
keen morning. 

I could not sit any longer. As soon as I ceased to hear 
the sound of their progress, I rose and walked home- 
much quieter in heart and mind than when I set ouL 


THB MAN AND THE CHILD. 




As I enterec by the nearer gate of the vicarage, I 
saw Old Rogers enter by the farther. He did not see 
me, but we met at the door. I greeted him. 

“ I 'm in luck,” he said, “ to meet yer reverence just 
coming home. How’s poor Miss Weir to-day, sirl” 

“ She was rather better, when I left her this morning, 
than she had been through the night. I have not heard 
since. I left my sister with her. I greatly doubt if she 
will ever get up again. That ’s between ourselves, you 
know. Come in.” 

“ Thank you, sir. I wanted to have a little talk with 
you. — You don’t believe what they say — that she tried 
to kill the poor little fellow 1 ” he asked, as soon as the 
study door was closed behind us. 

“ If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment. 
But I don’t believe it.” 

And thereupon I told him what both his master and 
I thought about it. But I did not tell him what she 
had said confirmatory of our conclusions. 

" That ’s just what I came to myself, sir, turning the 
thing over in my old head. But there’s dreadful things 
done in the world, sir. There’s my daughter been 
a-telling of me ” 

I was instantly breathless attention. What he chose 
to tell me I felt at liberty to hear, though I would not 
have listened to Jane herself. — I must here mention that 
she and Richard were not yet married, old Mr Brown- 
ngg not having yet consented to any day his son wished 
to fix; and that she was, therefore, still in her place ol 
attendance upon Miss Oldcastle. 


468 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ There ’s been my daughter a-lelling of me,” said 

Rogers, “ that the old lady up at the Hall there is tor- 
menting the life out of that daughter of hers — she don’t 
look much like hers, do she, sir ? — wanting to make hei 
marry a man of her choosing. I saw him go past o 
horseback with her yesterday, and I didn’t more than 
half like the looks on him. He ’s too like a fair-spoken 
captain I sailed with once, what was the hardest man I 
ever sailed with. His own way was everything, even 
after he saw it wouldn’t do. Now, don’t you think, sir, 
somebody or other ought to interfere ? It 's as bad as 
murder that, and anybody has a right to do summat to 
perwent it.” 

“ I don’t know what can be done, Rogers. I can't 
interfere.” 

The old man was silent Evidently he thought I 
might interfere if I pleased. I could see what he was 
thinking. Possibly his daughter had told him something 
more than he chose to communicate to me. I could not 
help suspecting the mode in which he judged I might 
interfere. But I could see no likelihood before me but 
that of confusion and precipitation. In a word, I had 
not a plain path to follow. 

** Old Rogers,” I said, I can almost guess what you 
mean. But I am in more difficulty with regard to what 
you suggest than I can easily explain to you. I need not 
tell you, however, that I will turn the whole matter over 
in my mind,” 

“ The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, 
if it please God,” return :d the old man solemnly. “ The 


THE MAN AND THE CHILD. 


469 


poor young lady keeps up as well as she can before her 
mothei ; but Jane do say there's a power o' crying done 
in her own room.” 

Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden 
resolve to do something, if anything could be done, I 
said : — 

“ I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear 
something from him to suggest a mode of action.” 

“ I don't think you '11 get anything worth while from 
Mr Stoddart. He takes things a deal too easy like. 
He'll be this man's man and that man’s man both at 
oncet I beg your pardon, sir. But he won’t help us.” 

“ That 's all I can think of at present, though,” I said \ 
whereupon the man-of-war's man, with true breeding, 
rose at once, and took a kindly leave. 

I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and 
I standing aloof ! But what could I do t She had re- 
pelled me — she would repel me. Were I to dare to 
speak, and so be refused, the separation would be final. 
She had said that the day might come when she would 
ask help from me : she had made no movement towards 
the rc ^uest. I would gladly die to serve her — yea, more 
gladly far than live, if that service was to separate us 
But what to do I could not see. Still, just to do some- 
thing, even if a useless something, I would go and see 
Mr Stoddart that evening. I was sure to find him alone, 
for he never dined \/ith the family, and I might possibly 
catch a glimpse of Miss Oldcastle. 

I found little Gerard so much better, though very 
weak, and his mother so quiet, notwithstanding great 


470 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHPOURHOOD. 


feverishness, that I might safely leave them to the care 
of Mary, who had quite recovered from her attack, and 
her brother Tom. So there was something off my mind 
for the present. 

The heavens were glorious with stars, — Arcturus and 
his host, the Pleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that 
shine out when ours is dark; but I did not care for 
them. Let them shine : they could not shine into me. 
I tried with feeble effort to lift my eyes to Him who is 
above the stars, and yet holds the sea, yea, the sea of 
human thought and trouble, in the hollow of His hand. 
How much sustaining, although no conscious comfort- 
ing, I got from that region 

** Where all men’s prayers to Thee raised 
Return possessed of what they pray Thee,** 

I cannot tell. It was not a time favourable to the 
analysis of feeling — still less of religious feeling. But 
somehow things did seem a little more endurable before 
I reached the house. 

I was passing across the hall, following the “white 
wolf” to Mr Stoddart’s room, when the drawing-room 
door opened, and Miss Oldcastle came half out, but 
seeing me drew back instantly. A moment after, how- 
ever, I heard the sound of her dress following us. Light 
as was her step, every footfall seemed to be upon my 
heart. I did not dare to look round, for dread of seeing 
her turn away from me. I felt like one under a spell, oi 
in an endless dream ; but gladly would I have walked 
on for ever in hope, with that silken vortex of sound fol- 
lowing me. Soon, however, it ceased. She had t imed 


TK£ MAN AND THE CHILD. 


471 


aside in some other direction, and I passed on to Mi 
Stoddart's room. 

He received me kindly, as he always did; but his 
hmile flickered uneasily. He seemed in some trouble, 
and yet pleased to see me. 

“ I am glad you have taken to horseback,” I said. 
“ It gives me hope that you will be my companion some- 
times when I make a round of my parish. I should 
like you to see some of our people. You would find 
more in them to interest you than perhaps you would 
expect.” 

I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling. 

‘‘ I am not so fond of riding as I used to be,” returned 
Mr Stoddart 

“ Did you like the Arab horses in India ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, after I got used to their careless ways. That 
horse you must have seen me on the other day, is very 
nearly a pure Arab. He belongs to Captain Everard, 
and carries Miss Oldcastle beautifully. I was quite 
sorry to take him from her, but it was her own doing. 
She would have me go with her. I think I have lost 
much firmness since I was ill.” 

“ If the loss of firmness means the increase of kind- 
ness, I do not think you will have to lament it,” I an- 
swered. ‘‘ Does Captain Everard make a long stay 1 ” 

“ He stays from day to day. I wish he would go. I 
don’t know what to do. Mrs Oldcastle and he form cue 
party in the house ; Miss Oldcastle and Judy another ; 
and each is trying to gain me over. I don’t want t« 
belong to either. If they would only let me alone 1 ” 


47^ ANNALI OF A QUIBT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Wha.t do they want of you, Mr Stoddart?” 

“ Mrs Oldcastle wants me to use my influence with 
Ethelwyn, to persuade her to behave differently to Cap- 
tain Everard. The old lady has set her heart on theii 
marriage, and Ethelwyn, though she dares not break 
with him, she is so much afraid of her mother, yet keeps 
him somehow at arm’s length. Then Judy is always 
begging me to stand up for her aunt. But what ’s the 
use of my standing up for her if she won’t stand up foi 
herself; she never says a word to me about it herself. 
It’s all Judy’s doing. How am I to know what she 
wants 1” 

“ I thought you said just now she aske ! you to ride 
with herl” 

“So she did, but nothing more. She did not even 
press it, only the tears came in her eyes when I refused, 
and I could not bear that ; so I went against my will. 
I don’t want to make enemies. I am sure I don’t see 
why she should stand out He *s a very good match in 
point of property and family too.” 

“ Perhaps she does not like him 1 ” I forced myself to 
say. 

“ Oh ! I suppose not, or she would not be so trouble- 
some. But she could arrange all that if she were in- 
clined to be agreeable to her friends. After all I have 
done for her! Well, one must not look to be repaid 
for anything one does for others. I used to be very 
fond of her : I am getting quite tired of her miserable 
looks.” 

And what had this man done for her, then t He had. 


THB MAN AND THE CHILDw 


473 


for his own amusement, taught her Hindostanee; he 
had given her some insight in^o the principles of me- 
chanics, and he had roused in her some taste for the 
writings of the Mystics. But for all that regarded the 
dignity of her humanity and her womanhood, if she had 
had no teaching but what he gave her, her mind would 
have been merely ** an unweeded garden that grows to 
seed.” And now he complained that in return for his 
pains she would not submit to the degradation of marry- 
ing a man she did not love, in order to leave him in the 
enjoyment of his own lazy and cowardly peace. Really 
he was a worse man than I had thought him. Clearly 
he would not help to keep her in the right path, not 
even interfere to prevent her from being pushed into the 
wrong one. But perhaps he was only expressing his 
own discomfort, not giving his real judgment, and I 
might be censuring him too hardly. 

** What will be the result, do you suppose 1 ” I asked. 

" I can^t tell. Sooner or later she will have to give in 
to her mother. Everybody does. She might as well 
yield with a good grace.” 

“ She must do what she thinks right,” I said. “ And 
you, Mr Stoddart, ought to help her to do what is right. 
You surely would not urge her to many a man she did 
not love.” 

" Well, no ; not exactly urge her. And yet society does 
not object to it It is an acknowledged arrangement, 
common enough.” 

“ Society is scarcely an interpreter of the divine will 
Society will honour vile things enough, so long as the 


474 ANNALS or A QUIET NBIGHBOURHOOfk. 


doer has money sufficient to clothe them in a grace no! 
their own. There is a God’s-way of doing everything in 
the world, up to marrying, or down to paying a bill.” 

“ Yes, yes. I know what you would say ; and I sup- 
pose you are right. I will not urge any opinion of mine. 
Besides, we shall have a little respite soon, for he must 
join his regiment in a day or two.” 

It was some relief to hear this. But I could not with 
equanimity prosecute a conversation having Miss Old- 
castle for the subject of it, and presently took my leave. 

As I walked through one of the long passages, but 
dimly lighted, leading from Mr Stoddart’s apartment to 
the great staircase, I started at a light touch on my arm. 
It was from Judy’s hand. 

“ Dear Mr Walton ” she said, and stopped. 

For at the same moment appeared at the farther end 
of the passage towards which I had been advancing, a 
figure of which little more than a white face was visible ; 
and the voice of Sarah, through whose softness always 
ran a harsh thread that made it unmistakable, said, 

“ Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you.” 

Judy took her hand from my arm, and with an almost 
martial stride the little creature walked up to the speaker, 
and stood before her defiantly. I could see them quite 
well in the fuller light at the end of the passage, where 
there stood a lamp. I followed slowly that I might not 
interrupt the child’s behaviour, which moved me strangely 
in contrast with the pusillanimity I had so lately wit- 
nessed in Mr Stoddart 

Sarah,” she said, “ you know you are telling a lia 


THE MAN AND THE CHILD. 


475 


Grannie does not want me. You have not been in the 
dining-room since I left it one moment ago. Do you 
think, you had woman, / am going to be afraid of you 1 
I know you better than you think. Go away directly 
or I will make you.” 

She stamped her little foot, and the “white wolf” 
turned and walked away without a word. 

If the mothers among my readers are shocked at the 
want of decorum in my friend Judy, I would just say, 
that valuable as propriety of demeanour is, truth of con- 
duct is infinitely more precious. Glad should I be to 
think that the even tenor of my children’s good manners 
could never be interrupted, except by such righteous 
indignation as carried Judy beyond the strict bounds of 
good breeding. Nor could I find it in my heart to 
rebuke her wherein she had been wrong. In the face of 
her courage and uprightness, the fault was so insignifi- 
cant that it would have been giving it an altogether un- 
due importance to allude to it at all, and might weaken 
her confidence in my sympathy with her rectitude. When 
I joined her she put her hand in mine, and so walked 
with me down the stair and out at the front door. 

“You will take cold, Judy, going out like that,” I 
said. 

“ I am in too great a passion to take cold,” she an 
sweied. “ But I have no time to talk about that creep 
ing creature. — Auntie doesn^t like Captain Everard ; and 
grannie keeps insisting on it that she shall have him 
whether she likes him or not Now do tell me what 
you think.” 


47^ AHNALS or A QUIBT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


•• I do not quite understand you, my child.” 

" I know auntie would like to know what you think. 
But I know she will never ask you herself. So / am 
asking you whether a lady ought to marry a gentleman 
she does not like, to please her mother.” 

** Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best 
a mistake.” 

‘‘ Thank you, Mr Walton. I will tell her. She will 
be glad to hear that you say so, I know.” 

** Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should 
not like her to think I had been inteifering, you know.” 

*‘Yes, yesj I know quite well. I will take care. 
Thank you. He ’s going to-morrow. Good night.” 

She bounded into the house again, and I walked away 
down the avenue. I saw and felt the stars now, for hope 
liad come again in my heart, and I thanked the God of 
hope. “ Our minds are small because they are faithless,” 
I said to myself. “ If we had faith in God, as our Lord 
tells us, our hearts would share in His greatness and 
peace. For we should not then be shut up in ourselves, 
but would walk abroad in Him.” And W’th a light step 
and a light heart I went home. 


CHAPTER XXVIIt 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 

ERY severe weather came, and much sicknesf 
followed, chiefly amongst the poorer people, 
who can so ill keep out the cold. Yet some 
of my well-to-do parishioners were laid up 
likewise — amongst others Mr Boulderstone, who had an 
attack of pleurisy. I had grown quite attached to Mr 
Boulderstone by this time, not because he was what is 
called interesting, for he was not ; not because he was 
clever, for he was not ; not because he was well-read, for 
he was not; not because he was possessed of influence 
in the parish, though he had that influence; but simply 
because he was true; he was what he appeared, felt 
what he professed, did what he said ; appearing kind, 
and feeling and acting kindly. Such a man is rare and 
precious, were he as stupid as the Welsh giant in “ Jack-’ 
the Giant-Killer.” I could never see Mr Boulderstone 
• mile off, but my heart felt the wan:ier for the sight 



478 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOl RHOOD. 


Even in his great pain he seemed to forget himself as he 
••eceived me, and to gain comfort from my mere presence. 
I could not help regarding him as a child of heaven, to 
be treated with the more reverence that he had the less 
aid to his goodness from his slow understanding. It 
seemed to me that the angels might gather with rever- 
ence around such a man, to watch the gradual and tardy 
awakening of the intellect in one in whom the heart and 
the conscience had been awake from the first The 
latter safe, they at least would see well that there was 
no fear for the former. Intelligence is a consequence ol 
love ; nor is there any true intelligence without it 

But I could not help feeling keenly the contrast when 
I went from his warm, comfortable, well-defended cham- 
ber, in which every appliance that could alleviate suffer- 
ing or aid recovery was at hand, like a castle well 
appointed with arms and engines against the inroads of 
winter and his yet colder ally Death, — ^when, I say, I 
went from his chamber to the cottage of the Tomkinses, 
and found it, as it were, lying open and bare to the 
enemy. What holes and cracks there were about the 
door, through which the fierce wind rushed at once intp 
the room to attack the aged feet and hands and throats * 
There were no defences of threefold draperies, and no 
soft carpet on the brick floor, — only a small rug which 
my sister had carried them laid down before a weak- 
eyed little fire, that seemed to despair of making any- 
thing of it against the huge cold that beleaguered and 
invaded the place. True, we had had the little cottage 
patched up. The two Thomas Weirs had been at work 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 


47S 


upon it for a whole day and a half in the first of the col J 
weather this winter ; but it was like putting the new cloth 
on the old garment, fc^f fresh places had broken out, 
and although Mrs Tomkins had fought the cold well 
with what rags she could spare, and an old knife, yet 
such razor-edged winds are hard to keep out, and here 
she was now, lying in bed, and breathing hard, like the 
sore-pressed garrison which had retreated to its last de- 
fence, the keep of the castle. Poor old Tomkins sat 
shivering over the little fire. 

“ Come, come, Tomkins ! this won’t do,” I said, as I 
caught up a broken shovel that would have let a lumi; 
as big as one’s fist through a hole in the middle of it. 
“ Why don’t you bum your coals in weather like this ? 
Where do you keep them 1 ” 

It made my heart ache to see the little heap in a box 
hardly bigger than the chest of tea my sister brought 
from London with her. I threw half of it on the fire at 
once. 

“ Deary me, Mr Walton ! you are wasteful, sir. The 
Lord never sent His good coals to be used that way.” 

“ He did though, Tomkins,” I answered. “ And He ’ll 
send you a little more this evening, after I get home. 
Keep yourself warm, man. This world’s cold in winter, 
you know.” 

‘‘ Indeed, sir, I know that. And I ’m like to know it 
worse afore long. She ’s going,” he said, pointing over 
his shoulder with his thumb towards the bed where his 

wife lay. 

I went to her I had seen her several times within 


4to AHNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD!. 


the last few weeks, but had observed nothing to make 
me consider her seriously ill I now saw at a glance 
that Tomkins was right. She had not long to live. 

** I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs Tom- 
kins,” I said. 

“ I don’t suffer so wery much, sir ; though to be sure 
it be hard to get the breath into my body, sir. And I 
do feel cold-like, sir.” 

“ I ’m going home directly, and I ’ll send you down 
another blanket It *s much colder to-day than it was 
yesterday.” 

“ It *s not weather-cold, sir, wi’ me. It ’s grave-cold, 
sir. Blankets won’t do me no good, sir. I can’t get it 
out of my head how perishing cold I shall be when I ’m 
under the mould, sir ; though I oughtn’t to mind it when 
it ’s the will o’ God. It ’s only till the resurrection, sir.” 

“ But it ’s not the will of God, Mrs Tomkins.” 

“ Ain’t it, sirl Sure I thought it was.” 

“ You believe in Jesus Christ, don’t you, Mrs Tom- 
kins?” 

“ That I do, sir, with all my heart and souL” 

“ Well, He says that whosoever liveth and believeth 
in Him shall never die.” 

“ But, you know, sir, everybody dies. I mus^ die, 
and be laid ir the churchyard, sir. And that ’s what I 
don’t like.” 

••But I say that is all a mistake. You won’t die. 
Your body will die, and be laid away out of sight ; but 
you will be awake, alive, more alive than you arc now, a 
great deal” 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 


4»1 


And here let me interrupt the conversation to remark 
upon the great mistake of teaching children that they 
have souls. The consequence is, that they think of their 
souls as of something which is not themselves. For 
what a man has cannot be himself. Hence, when they 
are told that their souls go to heaven, they think of their 
sehes as lying in the grave. They ought to be taught 
‘hat they have bodies j and that their bodies die j while 
:hey themselves live on. Then they will not think, as 
old Mrs Tomkins did, that they will be laid in the grave. 
It is making altogether too much of the body, and is 
indicative of an evil tendency to materialism, that we 
talk as if we possessed souls, instead of being souls. We 
should teach our children to think no more of their 
bodies when dead than they do of their hair when it is 
cut off, or of their old clothes when they have done with 
them. 

“ Do you really think so, sir ? ” 

“ Indeed I do. I don’t know anything about where 
you will be. But you will be with God — in your Father’s 
house, you know. And that is enough, is it not 1 ” 

“ Yes, surely, sir. But I wish you was to be there by 
the bedside of me when I was a-dyin’. I can’t help 
bein’ summat skeered at it. It don’t come nat’ral to me, 
like. I ha* got used to this old bed here, cold as it has 
been — many’s the night — wi’ my good man there by the 
side of me.” 

“Send for me, Mrs Tomkins, any moment, day or 
night, and I ’ll be with you directly.” 

“ I think, sir, if I had a hold ov you i* the one hand, 


/^^2 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


and my man there, the Lord bless him, i’ the other, 1 
could go comfortable.” 

“ I ’ll come the minute you send for me — ^just to keep 
you in mind that a better friend than I am is holding 
you all the time, though you mayn’t feel His hands. If 
it is some comfort to have hold of a human friend, think 
that a friend who is more than man, a divine friend, has 
a hold of you, who knows all your fears and pains, and 
sees how natural they are, and can just with a word, or 
a touch, or a look into your soul, keep them from going 
one hair’s-breadth too far. He loves us up to all our 
need, just because we need it, and He is all love to give.” 

“ But I can’t help thinking, sir, that I wouldn’t be 
troublesome. He has such a deal to look after ! And 
I don’t see how He can think of everybody, at every 
minute, like. I don’t mean that He will let anything go 
wrong. But He might forget an old body like me for a 
minute, like.” 

“ You would need to be as wise as He is before you 
could see how He does it. But you must believe more 
than you can understand. It is only common sense to 
do so. Think how nonsensical it would be to suppose 
that one who could make everything, and keep the whole 
going as He does, shouldn’t be able to help forgetting. 
It would be unreasonable to think that He must forget 
because you couldn’t understand how He could remem- 
ber. I think it is as hard for Him to forget anything as it 
is for us to remember everything ; for forgetting comes 
of weakness, and from our not being finished yet, and 
He is all strength and all perfection.” 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 


481 


" Then you think, sir, He never forgets anything ? ” 

I knew by the trouble that gathered on the old 
woman’s brow what kind of thought was passing through 
hei mind. But I let her go on, thinking so to help her 
the better. She paused for one moment only, and then 
resumed — much interrupted by the shortness of her 
breathing. 

“ When I was brought to bed first,” she said, “ it was 
o’ twins, sir. And oh ! sir, it was very hard. As I said 
to my man after I got my head up a bit, ‘ Tomkins,’ says 
I, ‘ you don’t know what it is to have two on ’em cryin* 
and cryin’, and you next to nothin’ to give ’em ; till 
their cryin’ sticks to your brain, and ye hear ’em when 
they ’re fast asleep, one on each side o’ you.’ Well, sir, 
I ’m ashamed to confess it even to you ; and what the 
Lord can think of me, I don’t know.” 

“ I would rather confess to Him than to the best 
friend I ever had,” I said ; “ I am so sure that He will 
make every excuse for me that ought to be made. And 
a fiiend can’t always do that He can’t know all about 
it And you can’t tell him all, because you don’t know 
all yourself. He does.” 

“ But I would like to tell you, sir. Would you believe 
it, sir, I wished ’em dead? Just to get the wailin’ of 
them out o’ my head, .1 wished ’em dead. In the court- 
yard o* the squire’s house, where my Tomkins worked 
on the home-farm, there was an old draw-well. It wasn’t 
used, and there was a lid to it, with a hole in it, through 
which you could put a good big stone. And Tomkins 
once took me to it, and, without tellin’ me what it was^ 


484 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


he put a stone in, and told me to hearken. And I 
hearkened, but I heard nothing, as I told him so. ‘ But,’ 
says he, ‘hearken, lass.’ And in a little while there 
come a blast o’ noise like from somewheres. ‘ What ’s 
that, Tomkins?’ I said ‘ That’s the ston’,’ says he, ‘ a 
strikin’ on the water down that there well’ And I 
turned sick at the thought of it. And it ’s down there 
that I wished the darlin’s that God had sent me ; for 
there they ’d be quiet,” 

“ Mothers are often a little out of their minds at such 
times, Mrs Tomkins. And so were you.” 

“ I don’t know, sir. But I must tell you another 
thing. The Sunday afore that, the parson had been 
preachin’ about ‘ Suffer little children,’ you know, sir, 
‘ to come unto me.’ I suppose that was what put it in 
my head ; but I fell asleep wi’ nothin’ else in my head 
but the cries o’ the infants and the sound o’ the ston’ in 
the draw-well. And I dreamed that I had one o’ them 
under each arm, ciyin’ dreadful, and was walkin’ across 
the court the way to the draw-well ; when all at once a 
man come up to me and held out his two hands, and 
said, ‘ Gie me my childer.* And I was in a tenible fear. 
And I gave him first one and then the t’other, and he 
took them, and one laid its head on one shoulder of him, 
and t’other upon t’other, and they stopped their cryin’, 
and fell fast asleep ; and away he walked wi’ them into 
tlie dark, and I saw him no more. And then I awoke 
ciyin’, I didn’t know why. And I took my twins to me, 
and my breasts was full, if ye ’ll excuse me, sir. And 
my heairt was as full o’ love to them. And they hardly 


OLD MRS TOMKXNI. 


4 ^ 


cried worth mentionin’ again. But afore they was two 
year old, they both died o’ the brown chytis, sir. And 
I think that He took them.” 

‘‘He did take them, Mrs Tomkins; and you’ll see 
chem again soon.” 

“ But, if He never forgets anything " 

“ I didn’t say that. I think He can do what He 
pleases. And if He pleases to forget anything, then He 
can forget it And I think that is what He does with 
our sins — that is, after He has got them away from us, 
once we are clean from them altogether. It would be a 
dreadful thing if He forgot them before that, and left 
them sticking fast to us and defiling us. How then 
should we ever be made clean 1 — What else does the 
prophet Isaiah mean when he says, ‘ Thou hast cast my 
sins behind Thy back ? ’ Is not that where He does not 
choose to see them any more 1 They are not pleasant to 
Him to think of any more than to us. It is as if He said 
— ‘ I will not jthink of that any more, for my sister will 
never do it again,’ and so He throws it behind His back.” 

“ They are good words, sir. I could not bear Him to 
think of me and my sins both at once.” 

I could not help thinking of the words of Macbeth, 
“ To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.” 

The old woman lay quiet after this, relieved in mind, 
though not in body, by the communication she had 
made with so much difficulty, and I hastened home to 
send some coals and other things, and then call upon 
Dr Duncan, lest he should not know that his patient 
was so much worse as I had found her. 


486 ANHALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


From Dr Duncan^s I went to see old Samuel Weir, 
who likewise was ailing. The bitter weather was telling 
chiefly upon the aged. I found him in bed, under the 
old embroidery. No one was in the room with him. 
He greeted me with a withered smile, sweet and true, 
although no flash of white teeth broke forth to light up 
the welcome of the aged head. 

“ Are you not lonely, Mr Weirl** 

“ No, sir. I don’t know as ever I was less lonely. 
I Ve got my stick, you see, sir,” he said, pointing to a 
thorn stick which lay beside him. 

“ I do not quite understand you,” I returned, knowing 
that the old man’s gently humorous sayings always meant 
something. 

“ You see, sir, when I want anything, I Ve only got 
to knock on the floor, and up comes my son out of the 
shop. And then again, when I knock at the door of 
the house up there, my Father opens it and looks out 
So I have both my son on earth and my Father in 
heaven, and what can an old man want more V 
“ What, indeed, could any one want more ? ” 

It V very strange,” the old man resumed after a 
pause, “ but as 1 lie here, after I Ve had my tea, and it 
is almost dark, I begin to feel as if I was a child again. 
They say old age is a second childhood ; but before 1 
grew so old, I used to think that meant only that a man 
was helpless and silly again, as he used to be when he 
was a child : I never thought it meant that a man felt 
like a child again, as light-hearted and untroubled as I 
do now.” 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 




“ Well, I suspect that is not what people do mean when 
they say so. But I am very glad — ^you don’t know how 
pleased it makes me to hear that you feel so. I will 
hope to fare in the same way when my time comes.” 

“ Indeed, I hope you will, sir ; for I am main and 
happy. Just before you came in now, I had really for- 
gotten that I was a toothless old man, and thought I 
was lying here waiting for my mother to come in and say 
good-night to me before I went to sleep. Wasn’t that 
curious, when I never saw my mother, as I told you 
before, sir ? ” 

“ It was very curious.” 

** But I have no end of fancies. Only when I begin 
to think about it, I can always tell when they are fancies, 
and they never put me out. There ’s one I see often — 
a man down on his knees at that cupboard nigh the 
floor there, searching and searching for somewhat And 
I wish he would just turn round his face once for a 
moment that I might see him. I have a notion always 
it ’s my own father.” 

“ How do you account for that fancy, now, Mr Weirl” 

** I ’ve often thought about it, sir, but I never could 
account for it I ’m none willing to think it ’s a ghost ; 
for what ’s the good of it ? I ’ve turned out that cup- 
board over and over, and there ’s nothing there I don’t 
k low.’* 

“ Vou ’re not afraid of it, are you 1 ” 

“ No, sir. Why should I be? I never did it no harm. 
And God can surely take care of me from all sorts.” 

My readers must not think anything is going to come 


|M ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 


out •f this strange illusion of the old man’s brain. J 
questioned him a little more about it, and came simply 
to the conclusion, that when he was a child he had 
found the door open and had wandered into the house, 
at the time uninhabited, had peeped in at the door ol 
the same room where he now lay, and had actually seen 
a man in the position he described, half in the cupboard, 
searching for something. His mind had kept the im- 
pression after the conscious memory had lost its hold ol 
the circumstance, and now revived it under certain phy- 
sical conditions. It was a glimpse out of one of the 
many stories which haunted the old mansion. But there 
he lay like a child, as he said, fearless even of such 
usurpations upon his senses. 

I think instances of quiet unj^^conscious faith are 
more common than is generally supposed. Few have 
along with it the genial communicative impulse of old 
Samuel Weir, which gives the opportunity of seeing into 
their hidden world. He seemed to have been, and to 
have remained, a child, in the best sense of the word. 
He had never had much trouble with himself, for he was 
of a kindly, gentle, trusting nature; and his will had 
never been called upon to exercise any strong effort to 
enable him to walk in the straight path. Nor had bis 
intellect, on the other hand, while capable enough, ever 
been so active as to suggest difficulties to his faith, leav 
ing him, even theoretically, far nearer the truth than 
those who start objections for their own sakes, liking to 
feel themselves in a position of supposed antagonism to 
the generally acknowledged sources of illumination. Foi 


OLD Mrs TOMKllfS. 


4if 


faith is in itself a light that lightens even the intellect , 
and hence the shield of the complete soldier of God, the 
shield of faith, is represented by Spenser as “ framed all 
of diamond, perfect, pure, and clean,” (the power of the 
diamond to absorb and again radiate light being no 
poetic fiction, but a well-known scientific fact,) whose 
light falling upon any enchantment or false appearance, 
destroys it utterly : for 

** all that was not such as seemed in sight. 

Before that shield did fade, and suddaine (all/* 

Old Rogers had passed through a very much larger 
experience. Many more difficulties had come to him, 
and he had met them in his own fashion and overcome 
them. For while there is such a thing as truth, the 
mind that can honestly beget a difficulty must at the 
same time be capable of receiving that light of the truth 
which annihilates the difficulty, or at least of receiving 
enough to enable it to foresee vaguely some solution, 
for a full perception of which the intellect may not be as 
yet competent. By every such victory Old Rogers had 
enlarged his being, ever becoming more childlike and 
faith' dj so that, while the childlikeness of Weir was the 
childlikeness of a child, that of Old Rogers was the child- 
likeness of a man, in which submission to God is not 
only a gladness, but a conscious will and choice. But 
as the safety of r. either depended on his own feelings, 
but on the love of God who was working in him, we may 
well leave all such differences of nature and education 
to the care of Him who first made the men different^ 
and then brought different conditions out of them. Th« 


490 


ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


one thing is, whether we are letting God have His own 
way with us, following where He leads, learning the les- 
sons He gives us. 

I wished that Mr Stoddart had been with me during 
these two visits. Perhaps he might have seen that the 
education of life was a marvellous thing, and, even in 
the poorest intellectual results, far more full of poetry 
and wonder than the outcome of that constant watering 
with the watering-pot of self-education which, dissociated 
from the duties of life and the influences of his fellows, 
had made of him what he was. But I doubt if he would 
have seen it. 

A week had elapsed from the night I had sat up with 
Gerard Weir, and his mother had not risen from her bed, 
nor did it seem likely she would ever rise again. On a 
Friday I went to see her, just as the darkness was be- 
ginning to gather. The fire of life was burning itself 
out fast. It glowed on her cheeks, it burned in her 
hands, it blazed in her eyes. But the fever had left her 
mind. That was cool, oh, so cool, now ! Those fierce 
tropical storms of passion had passed away, and nothing 
of life was lost Revenge had passed away, but revenge 
is of death, and deadly. Forgiveness had taken its 
place, and forgiveness is the giving, and so the receiving 
of life. Gerard, his dear little head starred with sticking- 
plaster, sat on her bed, looking as quietly happy as child 
could look, over a wooden horse with cylindrical body 
and jointless legs, covered with an eruption of red and 
black spots. — Is it the ignorance or the imagination of 
children that makes them so easily pleased with th« 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 


491 


merest hint at representation 1 I suspect the one helps 
the other towards that most desirable result, satisfaction. 
— But he dropped it when he saw me, in a way so 
abandoning that — comparing small things with great — it 
called to my mind those lines of Milton ; — 

“ From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve, 

Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed.” 

The quiet child flung himself upon my neck, and the 
mother’s face gleamed with pleasure. 

“ Dear boy ! ” I said, “ I am very glad to see you so 
much better.” 

For this was the first time he had shown such a revival 
of energy. He had been quite sweet when he saw me, 
but, until this evening, listless. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I am quite well now.” And he put 
his hand up to his head. 

“ Does it ache ” 

“ Not much now. The doctor says I had a bad fall” 

“ So you had, my child. But you will soon be well 
again.” 

The mother’s face was turned aside, yet I could see 
one tear forcing its way from under her closed eyelid. 

“ Oh, I don’t mind it,” he answered. “ Mammy is 
so kind to me 1 She lets me sit on her bed as long as 
I like.” 

“That is nice. But just run to auntie in the next 
room. I think your mammy would like to talk to me 
for a little while.” 

The child hurried off the bed, and ran with over* 
flowing obedience. 


493 AMMALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOOl 


I can even think of him now,” said the mother, 
without going into a passion. I hope God will for 
give him. I do. I think He will forgive me.” 

' * Did you ever hear,” I asked, “ of Jesus refusing 
anybody that wanted kindness from Him 1 He wouldn’t 
always do exactly what they asked Him, because that 
would sometimes be of no use, and sometimes would 
even be wrong ; but He never pushed them away from 
Him, never repulsed their approach to Him. For the 
sake of His disciples, He made the Syrophenician 
woman suffer a little while, but only to give her such 
praise afterwards and such a granting of her prayer as 
is just w'onderful.” 

She said nothing for a little while ; then murmured, 

‘‘ Shall I have to be ashamed to all eternity ? I do 
not want noi to be ashamed ; but shall I never be able 
to be like other people — in heaven I mean 1 ” 

“ If He is satisfied with you, you need not think 
anything more about yourself. If He lets you once 
kiss His feet, you won’t care to think about other 
people’s opinion of you even in heaven. But things 
will go very differently there from here. For everybody 
there will be more or less ashamed of himself, and will 
think worse of himself than he does of any one else. 
If trouble about your past life were to show itself on 
your face there, they would all run to comfort you, 
trying to make the best of it, and telling you that you 
must think about yourself as He thinks about you ; for 
w^hat He thinks is the rule, because it is the infallible 
right way. But perhaps rather, they would tell you to 


OLD MRS TOMKINS. 


493 


leave that to Him who has taken away our sins, and 
not trouble yourself any more about it. But to tell the 
truth, I don’t think such thoughts will come to you at all 
when once you have seen the face of Jesus Christ You 
will be so filled with His glory and goodness and grace, 
that you will just live in Him and not in yourself at all.” 
“ Will He let us tell Him anything we please ? ” 

** He lets you do that now ; surely He will not be 
less our God, our friend there.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind how soon He takes me now I 
Only there ’s that poor child that I ’ve behaved so badly 
to ! I wish I could take him with me. I have no time 
to make it up to him here.” 

“You must wait till he comes. He won’t think 
hardly of you. There ’s no fear of that.” 

“What will become of him, though? I can’t bear 
the idea of burdening my fa:her with him.” 

“ Your father will be glad to have him, I know. Ht 
will feel it a privilege to do something for your sake. 
But the boy will do him good. If he does not want 
him, I will take him myself.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, thank you, sir.** 

A burst of tears followed. 

“ He has often done me good,” I ssud. 

“ Who, sir ? My father ? ” 

“ No. Your son.” 

“ I don’t quite understand what you mean, sir.** 

“ I mean just what I say. The words and behaviour 
of your lovely boy have both roused and comforted my 
heart again and again.** 


494 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


She burst again into tears. 

“That is good to hear. To think of your saying 
that! The poor little innocent! Then it isn't all 
punishment 1 ” 

“ If it were all punishment, we should perish utterly. 
He is your punishment ; but look in what a lovely loving 
form your punishment has come, and say whether God 
has been good to you or not.’' 

“ If I had only received my punishment humbly, 
things would have been very different now. But I do 
take it — at least I want to take it — ^just as He would 
have me take it. I will bear anything He likes. I 
suppose I must diel” 

“ I think He means you to die now. You are ready 
for it now, I think. You have wanted to die for a long 
time j but you were not ready for it before.” 

“ And now I want to live for my boy. But His will 
be done.” 

“Amen. There is no such prayer in the universe 
as that It means everything best and most beautiful 
Thy will, O God, evermore be done.” 

She lay silent. A tap came to the chamber-door. It 
was Mary, who nursed her sister and attended to the 
snop. 

“ If you please, sir, here ’s a little girl come to say 
that Mrs Tomkins is dying, and wants to see you.” 

“ Then I must say good-night to you, Catherine. I 
will see you to-morrow morning. Think about old Mrs 
Tomkins; she’s a good old soul; and when you find 
your heart drawn to her in the trouble of death, then 


OLD MKS TOMKIMI, 


49S 


lift it up to God for her, that He will please to comfort 
and support her, and make her happier than health — 
stronger than strength, taking off the old worn garment 
of her body, and putting upon her the garment of sal- 
vation, which will be a grand new body, like that the 
Saviour had when He rose again.” 

I will try. I will think about her.” 

For I thought this would be a help to prepare her 
for her own death. In thinking lovingly about others, 
we think healthily about ourselves. And the things 
she thought of for the comfort of Mrs Tomkins, would 
return to comfort herself in the prospect of her own 
end, when perhaps she migh' not be able to think theiD 
out for herseli 


CHAPTER XXIX 


CALM AND STORM. 

UT of the two, Catherine had herself to go 
first. Again and again was I sent for to say 
farewell to Mrs Tomkins, and again and 
again I returned home leaying her asleep, 
and for the time better. But on a Saturday evening, as 
1 sat by my vestry-fire, pondering on many things, and 
trying to make myself feel that they were as God saw 
them and not as they appeared to me, young Tom came 
to me with the news that his sister seemed much worse, 
and his father would be much obliged if I would go and 
see her. I sent Tom on before, because I wished to 
follow alone. 

It was a brilliant starry night ; no moon, no clouds, 
no wmd, nothing but stars. They seemed to lean down 
towards the earth, as I have seen them since in more 
southern regions. It was, indeed, a glorious night. That 
Lh, I knew it was ; I did not feel that it was. For the 



CALM AND STORM. 


497 


death which I went to be near, came, with a stranga 
sense of separation, between me and the nature around 
me. I felt as if nature knew nothing, felt nothing, 
meant nothing, did not belong to humanit} at all; for 
here was death, and there shone the stars. 1 was wrorg, 
as I knew afterwards. 

I had had very little knowledge of the external shov/s 
of death. Strange as it may appear, I had never yet 
seen a fellow-creature pass beyond the call of his fellow- 
mortals. I had not even seen my father die. And the 
thought was oppressive to me. “To think,” I said to 
myself, as I walked over the bridge to the village-street 
— “ to think that the one moment the person is here, 
and the next — who shall say where ^ for we know nothing 
of the region beyond the grave ! Not even our risen 
Lord thought fit to bring back from Hades any news for 
the human family standing straining their eyes after their 
brothers and sisters that have vanished in the dark. 
Surely it is well, all well, although we know nothing, 
save that our Lord has been there, knows all about it, 
and does not choose to tell us. Welcome ignoraro/, 
then ! the ignorance in which he chooses to leave us. I 
would rather not know, if He gave me my choice, t ut 
preferred that I should not know.” And so the oppi js- 
sion passed from me, and I was free. 

But little as I knew of the signs of the approach of 
death, I was certain, the moment I saw Catherine, that 
the veil that hid the “ silent land ” had begun to lift 
slowly between her and it. And for a moment I almost 
envied her that she was so soon to sec and know that 


4q8 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


After which our blindness and ignorance were wondering 
and hungering. She could hardly speak. She looked 
more patient than calm. There was no light in the room 
but that of the fire, which flickered flashing and fading, 
now lighting up the troubled eye, and now letting a 
shadow of the coming repose fall gently over it. Thomas 
sat by the fire with the child on his knee, both looking 
fixedly into the glow. Gerard’s natural mood was so 
quiet and earnest, that the solemnity about him did not 
oppress him. He looked as if he were present at some 
religious observance of which he felt more than he under- 
stood, and his childish peace was in no wise inharmo- 
nious with the awful silence of the coming change. He 
was no more disquieted at the presence of death than 
the stars were. 

And this was the end of the lovely girl — to leave the 
fair world still young, because a selfish man had seen that 
she was fair ! No time can change the relation of cause 
and effect. The poison that operates ever so slowly is 
yet poison, and yet slays. And that man was now mur- 
dering her, with weapon long-reaching from out of the 
past. But no, thank God ! this was not the end of her. 
Though there is woe for that man by whom the offence 
cometh, yet there is provision for the offence. There is 
One who bringeth light out of darkness, joy out of sor- 
row, humility out of wrong. Back to the Father^s house 
we go with the sorrows and sins which, instead of inherit- 
ing the earth, we gathered and heaped upon our weary 
shoulders, and a different Elder Brother from that angry 
one who would not receive the poor swine-humbled pro- 


CALM AND STORM. 


499 


digal, takes the burden from our shoulders, and leads us 
into the presence of the Good. 

She put out her hand feebly, let it lie in mine, looked 
as if she wanted me to sit down by her bedside, and 
when I did so, closed her eyes. She said nothing. Her 
father was too much troubled to meet me without show- 
ing the signs of his distress, and his was a nature that 
ever sought concealment for its emotion; therefore he 
sat still. But Gerard crept down from his knee, came 
to me, clambered up on mine, and laid his little hand 
upon his mother’s, which I was holding. She opened 
her eyes, looked at the child, shut them again, and tears 
came out from between the closed lids. 

** Has Gerard ever been baptized 1 ” I asked her. 

Her lips indicated a no. 

** Then I will be his godfather. And that will be a 
pledge to you that I will never lose sight of him.” 

She pressed my hand, and the tears came faster. 

Believing with all my heart that the dying should 
remember their dying Lord, and that the ‘‘ Do this in 
remembrance of me ” can never be better obeyed than 
when the partaker is about to pass, supported by the 
God of his faith, through the same darkness which lay 
before our Lord when He uttered the words and ap- 
pointed the symbol, we kneeled, Thomas and I, and 
young Tom, who had by this time joined us with his 
sister Mary, around the bed, and partook with the dying 
woman of the signs of that death, wherein our Lord gave 
Himself entirely to us, to live by His death, and to the 
Father of us all in holiest sacrifice as the high-priest of 


500 


ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


US His people, leading us to the altat of a like self- 
abnegation. Upon what that bread and that wine mean, 
the sacrifice of our Lord, the whole world of humanity 
hangs. It is the redemption of men. 

After she had received the holy sacrament, she lay 
still as before. I heard her murmur once, “ Lord, 1 do 
not deserve it But I do love Thee.” And about two 
hours after, she quietly breathed her last We all kneeled, . 
and I thanked the Father of us aloud that He had taken 
her to Himself. Gerard had been fast asleep on his 
aunt’s lap, and she had put him to bed a little before. 
Surely he slept a deeper sleep than his mother’s ; for had 
she not awaked even as she fell asleep ? 

When I came out once more, I knew better what the 
stars meant They looked to me now as if they knew 
all about death, and therefore could not be sad to the 
eyes of men; as if that unsympathetic look they wore 
came from this, that they were made like the happy 
truth, and not like our fears. 

But soon the solemn feeling of repose, the sense that 
the world and all its cares would thus pass into nothing, 
vanished in its turn. For a moment I had been, as it 
were, walking on the shore of the Eternal, where the 
tide of time had left me in its retreat. Far away across 
the level sands I heard it moaning, but I stood on the 
firm ground of truth, and heeded it not. In a few mo- 
ments more it was raving around me ; it had carried me 
away fi’om my rest, and I was filled with the noise of its 
cares. 

For when I returned home, my sister told me that Old 


calm and storm. 


501 


Rogers had called, and seemed concerned not to find 
me at home. He would have gone to find me, my 
sister said, had I been anywhere but by a deathbed. He 
would not leave any message, however, saying he would 
call in the morning. 

I thought it better to go to his house. The stars were 
still shining as brightly a.s before, but a strong forebod- 
ing of trouble filled my mind, and once more the stars 
were far away, and lifted me no nearer to “ Him who 
made the seven stars and Orion.” When I examined 
myself, I could give no reason for my sudden fearfulness, 
save this : that as I went to Catherine’s house, I had 
passed Jane Rogers on her way to her father’s, and 
having just greeted her, had gone on; but, as it now 
came back upon .me, she had looked at me strangely 
— that is, with some significance in her face which 
conveyed nothing to me ; and now her father had been 
to seek me : it must have something to do with Miss 
Oldcastle. 

But when I came to the cottage, it was dark and still, 
and I could not bring myself to rouse the weary man 
from his bed. Indeed it was past eleven, as I found to 
my surprise on looking at my watch. So I turned and 
lingered by the old mill, and fell a pondering on the 
profusion of strength that rushed past the wheel away 
to the great sea, doing nothing. “Nature,” I thought, 
“ does not demand that power should always be force. 
Power itself must repose. He that believeth shall not 
make haste, says the Bible. But it needs strength to 
be still. Is my faith not strong enough to be still 1” I 


50a ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIA 


looked up to the heavens once more, and the quietnesj 
of the stars seemed to reproach me. “We are safe up 
here,” they seemed to say : “ we shine, fearless and con- 
fident, for the God who gave the primrose its rough 
leaves to hide it from the blast of uneven spring, hangs 
us in the awful hollows of space. We cannot fall out 
of His safety. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold ! 
Who hath created these things — that bringeth out their 
host by number ! He calleth them all by names. By 
the greatness of His might, for that He is strong in 
power, not one faileth. Why sayest thou, O Jacob ! 
and speakest, O Israel ! my way is hid from the Lord, 
and my judgment is passed over from my God 

The night was very still; there was, I thought, no 
one awake within miles of me. The stars seemed to 
shine into me the divine reproach of those glorious 
words. “ O my God 1 ” I cried, and fell on my knees 
by the mill-door. 

What I tried to say more I will not say here. I may 
say that I cried to God. What I said to Him ought 
not, cannot be repeated to another. 

When I opened my eyes I saw the door of the mill 
was open too, and there in the door, his white head 
glimmering, stood Old Rogers, with a look on his face 
as if he had just come down from the mount. I started 
to my feet, with that strange feeling of something like 
shame that seizes one at the very thought of other eyes 
than those of the Father. The old man came forward, 
and bowed his head with an unconscious expression 
of humble dignity, but would have passed me without 


CALM AND STORM. 


vn 


•peech, leaving the mill-door open behind him. I could 
not bear to part with him thus. 

" Won’t you speak to me, Rogers?” I said. 

He turned at once with evident pleasure. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir. I was ashamed of having 
intruded on you, and I thought you would rather be 

left alone. I thought — I thought hesitated the old 

man, ** that you might like to go into the mill, for the 
night ’s cold out o’ doors.” 

“ Thank you, Rogers. I won’t now. I thought you 
had been in bed. How do you come to be out so 
late?” 

“ You see, sir, when I *m in any trouble, it ’s no use 
to go to bed. I can’t* sleep. I only keep the old ’oman 
wakin’. And the key o’ the mill alius hangin’ at the 
back o’ my door, and knowin’ it to be a good place to 
— to — shut the door in, I came out as soon as she was 
asleep ; but I little thought to see you, sir.” 

“ I came to find you, not thinking how the time went 
Catherine Weir is gone home.” 

“ I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And per- 
haps something will come out now that will help us.” 

“ I do not quite understand you,” I said, with hesita- 
tion. 

But Rogers made no reply. 

" I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night Can 
I help you ? ” I resumed. 

“ If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me. But 
I have no right to say so. Only, if a pair of old eyes 
be not blind, a man may pray to God about anything 


504 ANNALS OP A QUIET K CIGHBOUEHOOD. 


he sees. I was prayin* hard about you in there, sir» 
while you was on your knees o* the other side o* the 
door.*’ 

I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I 
could not ask him for further explanation. 

“ What did you want to see me about I inquired. 

He hesitated foi a moment. 

“ I daresay it was very foolish of me, sir. But I just 
wanted to tell you that — our Jane was down here from 
the Hall this arternoon ” 

“ I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well?” 

" Yes, yes, sir. You know that ’s not the point” 

The old man’s tone seemed to reprove me for vain 
words, and I held my peace. 

“ The captain *s there again.” 

An icy spear seemed to pass through my heart. I 
could make no reply. The same moment a cold wind 
blew on me from the open door of the mill. 

Although Lear was of course right when he said, 

“ The tempest in my mind 
Doth from my senses take all feeling else 
Save what beats there,” 

yet \t is also true, that sometimes, in the midst of its 
greatest pain, the mind takes marvellous notice of the 
smallest things that happen around it. This involves a 
law of which illustrations could be plentifully adduced 
from Shakespeare himself, nanr.ely, that the intellectual 
part of the mind can go on working with strange inde* 
pendence of the emotional. 

From the door of the mill, as from a sepulchral 


CALM AND STORM. 


50s 


cavern, blew a cold wind like the very breath of death 
upon me, just when that pang shot, in absolute pain, 
through my heart For a wind had arisen from behind 
the mill, and we were in its shelter save where a window 
behind and the door beside me allowed free passage to 
the first of the coming storm. 

I believed I turned away from the old man without 
a word. He made no attempt to detain me. Whether 
he went back into his closet, the old mill, sacred in the 
eyes of the Father who honours His children, even as 
the church wherein many prayers went up to Him, ch* 
turned homewards to his cottage and his sleeping wife, 
I cannot tell. The first I remember aftei that cold 
wind is, that I was fighting with that wind, gathered 
even to a storm, upon the common where I had dealt 
so severely with her who had this very night gone into 
that region into which, as into a waveless sea, all the 
rivers of life rush and are silent. Is it the sea of death 1 
No. The sea of life — a life too keen, too refined, for 
our senses to know it, and therefore we call it death — 
because we cannot lay hold upon it 

I will not dwell upon my thoughts as I wandered 
about over that waste. The wind had risen to a storm 
charged with fierce showers of stinging hail, which gave 
a look of gray wrath to the invisible wind as it swept 
slanting by, and then danced and scudded along the 
levels. The next point in that night of pain is when I 
found myself standing at the iron gate of Oldcastle 
Hall. I had left the common, passed my own house 
and the church, crossed the river, walked through the 


5o6 annals op a quiet neigh sourhood. 


village, and was restored to self-consciousness — that is, 
I knew that I was there — only when first I stood in the 
shelter of one of those great pillars and the monster on 
its top. Finding the gate open, for they were not pre- 
cise about having it fastened, I pushed it and entered. 
The wind was roaring in the trees as I thi.'dc I have 
never heard it roar since ; for the hail clashed upon the 
bare branches and twigs, and mingled an unearthly hiss 
with the roar. In the midst of it the house stood like a 
tomb, dark, silent, without one dim light to show that 
sleep and not death ruled within. I could have fancied 
that there were no windows in it, that it stood, like an 
eyeless skull, in that gaunt forest of skeleton trees, 
empty and desolate, beaten by the ungenial hail, the 
dead rain of the country of death. I passed round to 
the other side, stepping gently lest some ear might be 
awake — as if any ear, even that of Judy’s white wolf, could 
have heard the loudest step in such a storm. I heard 
the hailstones crush between my feet and the soft grass 
of the lawn, but I dared not stop to look up at the back 
of the house. I went on to the staircase in the rock, 
and by its rude steps, dangerous in the flapping of such 
storm-wings as swept about it that night, descended to 
the little grove below, around the deep- walled pool 
Here the wind did not reach me. It roared overhead, 
but, save an occasional sigh, as if of sympathy with 
their suffering brethren abroad in the world, the hermits 
of this cell stood upright and still around the sleeping 
water. But my heart was a well in which a .storm boiled 
And raged; and all that ‘‘pother o’er my head” was 


CALM AND STORM. 


w 


peace itself compared to what I felt I sat down on 
the seat at the foot of a tree, where I had first seen 
Miss Oldcastle reading. And then I looked up to the 
house. Yes, there was a light there ! It must be in 
her window. She then could not rest any more than I. 
Sleep was driven from her eyes because she must wed 
the man she would not; while sleep was driven from 
mine because I could not marry the woman I would. 
Was that it 1 No. My heart acquitted me, in part at 
least, of thinking only of my own sorrow in the presence 
of her greater distress. Gladly would I have given her 
up for ever, without a hope, to redeem her from such 
a bondage. “ But it would be to marry another some 
day,” suggested the tormentor within. And then the 
storm, which had a little abated, broke out afresh in my 
soul. But before I rose from her seat I was ready even 
for that — ^at least I thought so — if only I might delivei 
her from the all but destruction that seemed to be im- 
pending over her. The same moment in which my 
mind seemed to have arrived at the possibility of such 
a resolution, I rose almost involuntarily, and glancing 
once more at the dull light in her window — for I did 
not doubt that it was her window, though it was much 
too dark to discern the shape of the house — almost felt 
my way to the stair, and climbed again into the storm. 

But I was quieter now, and able to go home. It must 
liave been nearly morning, though at this season of the 
year the morning is undefined, when I reached my own 
house. My sister had gone to bed, for I could always 
let myself in ; nor indeed, did any one in Marshmallow! 


5o8 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


think the locking of the door at night an imperative 
duty. 

When I fell asleep, I was again in the old quarry, 
staring into the deep well. I thought Mrs Oldcastle 
was murdering her daughter in the house above, while 
I was spell-bound to the spot, where, if I stood long 
enough, I should see her body float into the well from 
the subterranean passage, the opening of which was 
*ast below where I stood. I was thus confusing and 
reconstructing the two dreadful stories of the place — 
that told me by old Weir, about the circumstances of 
his birth ; and that told me by Dr Duncan, about Mrs 
Oldcastle’s treatment of her elder daughter. But as a 
white hand and arm appeared in the water below me, 
sorrow and pity more than horror broke the bonds of 
sleep, and I awoke to less trouble than that of my 
dreams, only because that which 1 feared had not )'ef 
come. 


CHAPTER XXX 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 

was the Sabbath mom. But such a Sab 
bath ! The day seemed all wan with weep 
ing, and gray with care. The wind dashed 
itself against the casement, laden with soft 
heavy sleet. The ground, the bushes, the very out 
houses seemed sodden with the rain. The trees, which 
looked stricken as if they could die of grief, were yet 
tormented with fear, for the bare branches went stream- 
ing out in the torrent of the wind, as cowering before 
the invisible foe. The first thing I knew when I awoke 
was the raving of that wind. I could lie in bed not a 
moment longer. I could not rest. But how was I to 
do the work of my office ? Wlien a man^s duty looks 
like an enemy, dragging him into the dark mountains, 
he has no less to go with it than when, like a friend with 
loving face, it offers to lead him along green pastures 
by tlK? rivef-^ide. I had little power over my feelings ; 




510 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I could not prevent my mind from mirroring itself in the 
nature around me; but I could address myself to the 
work I had to do. “My God!” was all the prayer I 
could pray ere I descended to join my sister at the 
breakfast-table. But He knew what lay behind the one 
word. 

Martha could not help seeing that something was the 
matter. I saw by her looks that she could read so 
much in mine. But her eyes alone questioned me, and 
that only by glancing at me anxiously from time to 
time. I was grateful to her for saying nothing. It is a 
fine thing in friendship to know when to be silent 

The prayers were before me, in the hands of all my 
friends, and in the hearts of some of them; and if 1 
could not enter into them as I would, I could yet read 
them humbly before God as His servant to help the 
people to worship as one flock. But how was I to 
preach 1 I had been in difficulty before now, but nevci 
in so much. How was I to teach others, whose mind 
was one confusion? The subject on which I was pon- 
dering when young Weir came to tell me his sister was 
dying, had retreated as if into the far past ; it seemed as 
if years had come between that time and this, though 
but one black night had rolled by. To attempt to speak 
upon that would have been vain, for I had nothing to 
say on the matter now. And if I could have recalled 
my former thoughts, I should have felt a hypocrite as 1 
delivered them, so utterly dissociated would they have 
been from anything that I was thinking or feeling now. 
Here would have been my visible form and a.udible 


A SBRUON TO MYSELF. 


5 « 


Foice, uttering that as present to me now, as felt by me 
now, which I did think and feel yesterday, but which, 
although I believed it, was not present to my feeling or 
heart, and must wait the revolution of months, or it 
might be of years, before I should ^eel it again, before I 
should be able to exhort my people about it with the 
fervour of a present faith. But, indeed, I could not even 
recall what I had thought and felt. Should I then tell 
them that I could not speak to them that morning 1 — 
There would be nothing wrong in that But I felt 
ashamed of yielding to personal trouble when the truths 
of God were all about me, although I could not feel 
theuL Might not some hungry soul go away without 
being satisfied, because I was faint and down-hearted J 
I confess I had a desire likewise to avoid giving rise 
to speculation and talk about myself, a desire which, 
although not wrong, could neither have strengthened 
me to speak the truth, nor have justified me in making 
the attempt — What was to be done 1 
All at once the remembrance crossed my mind of a 
sermon I had preached before upon the words of St 
Paul : “ Thou therefore which teachest another, teachest 
thou not thyselfl** a subject suggested by the fact that 
on the preceding Sunday I had especially felt, in preach- 
ing to my people, that I was exhorting myself whose 
necessity was greater than theirs — at least I felt it to be 
greater than I could know theirs to be. And now the 
converse of the thought came to me, and I said to 
myself, “ Might I not try the other way now, and preach 
to myself 1 In teaching myself, might I not teach others I 


512 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOU EHOODc 


Would it not hold? I am very troubled and faithless 
now. If I knew that God was going to lay the full 
weight of chis grief upon me, yet if I loved Him with all 
my heart, should I not at least be more quiet ? There 
would not be a storm within me then, as if the Father 
had descended from the throne of the heavens, and 
‘chaos were come again.’ Let me expostulate with 
myself in my heart, and the words of my expostulation 
will not be the less true with my people.” 

All this passed through my mind as I sat in my study 
after breakfast, with the great old cedar roaring before my 
window. It was within an hour of church-time. I took 
my Bible, read and thought, got even some comfort 
already, and found myself in my vestry not quite unwill- 
ing to read the prayers and speak to my people. 

There were very few present. The day was one of 
the worst — violently stormy, which harmonized some- 
what with my feelings; and, to my further relief, the 
Hall pew was empty. Instead of finding myself a mere 
minister to the prayers of others, I found, as I read, 
that my heart went out in crying to God for the divine 
presence of His Spirit. And if I thought more of myself 
in my prayers than was well, yet as soon as I was con- 
verted, would I not strengthen my brethren 1 And the 
sermon I preached to myself and through myself to my 
people, was that which the stars had preached to me, 
and thereby driven me to my knees by the mill-door. 
I took for my text, “The glory of the Lord shall be 
Fevealed;” and then I proceeded to show them how 
the glory of the Lord was to be revealed. I preached 


A SIRM9N TO MYSILF* 


513 


to myself that throughout this fortieth chapter of the 
prophecies of Isaiah, the power of God is put side by 
side with the weakness of men, not that He, the perfect, 
may glory over His feeble children ; not that He may 
say to them — “ Look how mighty I am, and go down 
upon your knees and worship” — for power alone was 
never yet worthy of prayer ; but that he may say thus : 
“ Look, my children, you will never be strong but with 
my strength. I have no other to give you. And that 
you can get only by trusting in me. I cannot give it you 
any other way. There is no other way. But can you 
not trust in me 1 Look how strong I am. You wither 
like the grass. Do not fear. Let the grass wither. Lay 
hold of my word, that which I say to you out of my 
truth, and that will be life in you that the blowing of 
the wind that withers cannot reach. I am coming with 
my strong hand and my judging arm to do my work. 
And what is the work of my strong hand and ruling 
arm % To feed my flock like a shepherd, to gather the 
lambs with my arm, and carry them in my bosom, and 
gently lead those that are with young. I have measured 
the waters in the hollow of my hand, and held the 
mountains in my scales, to give each his due weight, 
and all the nations, so strong and fearful in your eyes, 
are as nothing beside my strength and what I can do. 
Do not think of me as of an image that your hands can 
make, a thing you can choose to serve, and for which 
you can do things to win its favour. I am before and 
above the earth, and over your life, and your oppressors 
I will wither with my breath. I come to you with help 

2 K 


514 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I need no worship from you. But I say love me, for 
love is life, and I love you. Look at the stars I have 
made. I know every one of them. Not one goes wrong, 
because I keep him right. Why sayest thou, O Jacob, 
and speakest, O Israel — my way is hid from the Lord, 
and my judgment is passed over from my God ! I give 
power to the faint ^ and to them that have no might, 
plenty of strength.” 

“ Thus,” I went on to say, “ God brings His strength 
to destroy our weakness by making us strong. This is 
a God indeed ! Shall we not trust Him % ” 

I gave my people this paraphrase of the chapter, to 
help them to see the meanings which their familiarity 
with the words, and their non-familiarity with the modes 
of Eastern thought, and the forms of Eastern expression, 
would unite to prevent them from catching more than 
broken glimmerings of. And then I tried to show them 
that it was in the commonest troubles of life, as well as 
in the spiritual fears and perplexities that came upon 
them, that they were to trust in God; for God made 
the outside as well as the inside, and they altogether 
belonged to Him ; and that when outside things, such 
as pain or loss of work, or difficulty in getting money, 
were referred to God and His will, they too straightway 
became spiritual affairs, for nothing in the world could 
any longer appear common or unclean to the man who 
saw God in everything. But I told them they must not 
be too anxious to be delivered from that which troubled 
them : but they ought to be anxious to have the pre» 
Bence of God with them to support them, and make 


A SERMON TO MYSRLT. 


5M 


them able in patience to possess their souls ; and so the 
trouble would work its end — the purification of theii 
minds, that the light and gladness of God and all His 
earth, which the pure in heart and the meek alone could 
inherit, might shine in upon them. And then I repeated 
to them this portion of a prayer out of one of Sir Philip 
Sidney's books ; — 

“ O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace 
what sorrow Thou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much 
let me crave of Thee, (let my craving, O Lord, be 
accepted of Thee, since even that proceeds from Thee,) 
let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in my 
greatest affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy 
creature, and by Thy goodness (which is Thyself) that 
Thou wilt suffer some beam of Thy majesty so to shine 
into my mind, that it may still depend confidently on 
Thee.” 

All the time I was speaking, the rain, mingled with 
sleet, was dashing against the windows, and the wind 
was howling over the graves all about But the dead 
were not troubled by the storm ; and over my head, 
from beam to beam of the roof, now resting on one, 
now flitting to another, a sparrow kept flying, which 
had taken refuge in the church till the storm should 
cease and the sun shine out in the great temple. 
“ This,” I said aloud, “ is what the church is for : as 
the sparrow finds there a house from the storm, so 
the human heart escapes thither to hear the still small 


5i6 annals of a quiet neighbourhood. 


voice of God when its faith is too weak to find Him in 
the storm, and in the sorrow, and in the pain.” And 
while I spoke, a dim watery gleam fell on the chancel 
floor, and the comfort of the sun awoke in my heart 
Nor let any one call me superstitious for taking that pale 
sun-ray of hope as sent to me ; for I received it as 
comfort for the race, and for me as one of the family, 
even as the bow that was set in the cloud, a promise to 
the eyes of light for them that sit in darkness. As I 
write, my eye falls upon the Bible on the table by my 
side, and I read the words, “ For the Lord God is a sun 
and shield, the Lord will give grace and glory.” And 
I lift my eyes from my paper and look abroad from my 
window, and the sun is shining in its strength. The 
leaves are dancing in the light wind that gives them 
each its share of the sun, and my trouble has passed 
away for ever, like the storm of that night and the unrest 
of that strange Sabbath. 

Such comforts would come to us oftener from Nature, 
if we really believed that our God was the God of 
Nature ; that when He made, or rather when He 
makes. He means; that not His hands only, but His 
heart too, is in the making of those things ; that, there- 
fore, the influences of Nature upon human minds and 
hearts are because He intended them. And if we be- 
lieve that our God is everywhere, why should we not 
think Him present even in the coincidences that some- 
times seem so strange? For, if He be in the things 
that coincide, He must be in the coincidence of those 
things. 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


5iJ 


Miss Oldcastle told me once that she could not take 
her eyes off a butterfly which was flitting about in the 
church all the time I was speaking of the resurrection 
of the dead. I told the people that in Greek there was 
one word for the soul and for a butterfly — Psyche ; that 
I thought as the light on the rain made the natural 
symbol of mercy — the rainbow, so the butterfly was the 
type in nature, and made to the end, amongst other 
ends, of being such a type — of the resurrection of the 
human body ; that its name certainly expressed the 
hope of the Greeks in immortality, while to us it speaks 
likewise of a glorified body, whereby we shall know and 
love each other with our eyes as well as our hearts.^ 
My sister saw the butterfly too, but only remembered 
that she had seen it when it was mentioned in her hear- 
ing : on her the sight made no impression ; she saw no 
coincidence. 

I descended from the pulpit comforted by the sermon 
I had preached to myself. But I was glad to feel justi- 
fied in telling my people that, in consequence of the 
continued storm, for there had been no more of sunshine 
than just that watery gleam, there would be no service 
in the afternoon, and that I would instead visit some of 
my sick poor, whom the weather might have discom- 
posed in their worn dwellings. 

The people were very slow in dispersing. Theie was 
30 much putting on of clogs, gathering up of skirts over 
the head, and expanding of umbrellas, soon to be taken 
down again as worse than useless in the violence of the 
fiiiid, that the porches were crowded^ and the km left 


5lS ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD!. 


in the church detained till the others made way. 1 
lingered with these. They were all poor people. 

“ I am sorry you will have such a wet walk home,*^ 
I said to Mrs Baird, the wife of old Reginald Baird, the 
shoemaker, a little wizened creature, with more wrinkles 
than hairs, who the older and more withered she grew, 
seemed like the kernels of some nuts only to grow the 
sweeter. 

“ It 's very good of you to let us off this afternoon, 
sir. Not as I minds the wet : it finds out the holes 
in people’s shoes, and gets my husband into more 
work." 

This was in fact the response of the shoemaker’s 
wife to my sermon. If we look for responses after our 
fashion instead of after people’s own fashion, we ought 
to be disappointed. Any recognition of truth, whatever 
form it may take, whether that of poetic delight, intel- 
lectual corroboration, practical commonplace, or even 
vulgar aphorism, must be welcomed by the husbandmen 
of the God of growth. A response which jars against 
the peculiar pitch of our mental instrument, must not 
therefore be turned away from with dislike. Our mood 
of the moment is not that by which the universe is tuned 
into its harmonies. We must drop our instrument and 
listen to the other, and if we find that the player upon 
it is breathing after a higher expression, is, after his 
fashion, striving to embody something he sees of the 
same truth the utterance of which called forth this his 
answer, let us thank God and take courage. God at 
least is pleased : and if our refinement and education 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


Sif 


take away from our pleasure, it is because of something 
low, false, and selfish, not divine in a word, that is 
mingled with that refinement and that education. If 
tiie shoemaker’s wife’s response to the prophet’s grand 
poem about the care of God over His creatures, took 
the form of acknowledgment for the rain that found out 
the holes in the people’s shoes, it was the more genuine 
and true, for in itself it afforded proof that it was not 
a mere reflex of the words of the prophet, but sprung 
from the experience and recognition of the shoemaker’s 
wife. Nor was there anything necessarily selfish in it, 
for if there are holes in people’s shoes, the sooner they 
are found out the better. 

While I was talking to Mrs Baird, Mr Stoddart, whose 
love for the old organ had been stronger than his dislike 
to the storm, had come down into the church, and now 
approached me. 

“ I never saw you in the church before, Mr Stoddart,” 
I said, “ though I have heard you often enough. You 
use your own private door always.” 

I thought to go that way now, but there came such 
a fierce burst of wind and rain in my face, that my 
courage failed me, and I turned back — like the sparrow 
— for refuge in the church.” 

** A thought strikes me,” I said. " Come home with 
me, and have some lunch, and then we will go together 
to see some of my poor people. I have often wished 
to ask you.” 

His face fell 

“ It is such a day 1” he answered, remonstratingly; but 


ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 




not positively refusing. It was not his way ever to 
refuse anything positively. 

"So it was when you set out this morning,” I le- 
turned ; " but you would not deprive us of the aid of 
your music for the sake of a charge of wind, and a rattle 
of rain-drops.” 

“ But I shan’t be of any use. You are going, and 
that is enough.” 

" I beg your pardon. Your very presence will be of 
use. Nothing yet given him or done for him by his 
fellow, ever did any man so much good as the recogni- 
tion of the brotherhood by the common signs of friend- 
ship and sympathy. The best good of given money 
depends on the degree to which it is the sign of that 
friendship and sympathy. Our Lord did not make little 
of visiting ; ‘ I was sick, and ye visited me.’ ‘ Inasmuch 
as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not 
to me.’ Of course, if the visitor goes professionally and 
not humanly, — as a mere religious policeman, that is — 
whether he only distributes tracts with condescending 
words, or gives money liberally because he thinks he 
ought, the more he does not go the better, for he only 
does harm to them and himself too.” 

" But I cannot pretend to feel any of the interest you 
consider essential ; why then should I go ? ” 

" To please me, your friend. That is a good human 
reason. You need rot say a word — you must not pie 
tend anything. Go as my companion, not as their visito' 
Will )'ou come ? ” 

" I suppose I must” 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


S*i 


• You must, then. Thank you. You will help me. 
I have seldom a companion.” 

So when the storm-fit had abated for the moment, we 
hurried to the vicarage, had a good though hasty lunch, 
{to which I was pleased to see Mr Stoddart do justice ; 
for it is with man as with beast, if you want work out 
of him, he must eat well — and it is the one justification 
of eating well, that a man works well upon it,) and set 
out for the village. The rain was worse than ever. 
There was no sleet, and the wind was not cold, but 
the windows of heaven were opened, and if the foun- 
tains of the great deep were not broken up, it looked 
like it, at least, when we reached the bridge and saw 
how the river had spread out over all the low lands 
on its borders. We could not talk much as we went 
along. 

. ** Don’t you find some pleasure in fighting the wind I ” 
I said. 

^ I have no doubt I should,” answered Mr Stoddart, 
“ if I thought I were going to do any good ; but as it 
is, to tell the truth, I would rather be by my own fire 
with my folio Dante on the reading desk.” 

“Well, I would rather help the poorest woman in 
creation, than contemplate the sufferings of the greatest 
vnd wickedest,” 1 said. 

“There are two things you forget,” returned Mr 
Stoddart “ First, that the poem of Dante is not nearly 
occupied with the sufferings of the wicked ; and next, 
Chat what I have complained of in this expedition— 
which, as far as 1 am concerned, I would call a wild 


5Sa ANNALS OF A QUIET NBIGHBOUEHOOD. 


goose chase, were it not that it is your doing and not 
mine — is that I am not going to help anybody.” 

“You would have the best of the argument entiiely,” 
I replied, “if your expectation was sure to turn out 
correct” 

As I spoke, we had come within a few yards of the 
Tomkins^s cottage, which lay low down from the village 
towards the river, and I saw that the water was at the 
threshold. I turned to Mr Stoddart, who, to do him 
justice, had not yet grumbled in the least. 

“ Perhaps you had better go home, after all,” I said ; 
“for you must wade into Tomkins’s if you go at all. 
Poor old man ! what can he be doing, with his wife 
dying, and the river in his house !” 

“You have constituted yourself my superior officer, 
Mr Walton. I never turned my back on my leader yet 
Though I confess I wish I could see the enemy a little 
clearer.” 

“ There is the enemy,” I said, pointing to the water, 
and walking into it 

Mr Stoddart followed me without a moment’s hesita 
tion. 

When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a 
small stream of water running straight from the door to 
the fire on the hearth, which it had already drowned. 
The old man was sitting by his wife’s bedside. Life 
seemed rapidly going from the old woman. She lay 
breathing very hard. 

“ Oh, sir,” said the old man, as he rose, almost ay 
ing, “ you ’re come at last I” 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


5^ 


“ Did you send for me?” I asked. 

** No, sir. I had nobody to send. Leastways, I 
asked the Lord if He wouldn’t fetch you. I been 
prayin’ hard for you for the last hour. I couldn’t leave 
her to come for you. And I do believe the wind ’ud ha’ 
blown me off my two old legs.” 

“Well, I am come, you see. I would have come 
sooner, but I had no idea you would be flooded.” 

“ It ’s not that I mind, sir, though it is cold sin’ the 
fire went. But she is goin’ now, sir. She ha’n’t spoken 
a word this two hours and more, and iier breathin’s 
worse and worse. She don’t know me now, sir.” 

A moan of protestation came from the dying woman. 

“ She does know you, and loves you too, Tomkins,” 
I said. “ And you ’ll both know each other better by 
and by.” 

The old woman made a feeble motion with her hand. 
I took it in mine. It was cold and deathlike. The rain 
was falling in large slow drops from the roof upon the bed- 
clothes. But she would be beyond the reach of all the 
region storms before long, and it did not matter much. 

“ Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr Stoddart, 
and put it to catch the drop here,” I said. 

For I wanted to give him the first chance of being 
useful. 

“ There ’s one in the press there,” said the old man, 
rising feebly. 

“ Keep your seat,” said Mr Stoddart “ I *11 get it” 

And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it oi 
ths bed to catch the drop. 


51# ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


The old woman held my hand in hers } but by its 
motion I knew that she wanted something ; and guess- 
ing what it was from what she had said before, I made 
her husband sit on the bed on the other side of her and 
take hold of her other hand, while I took his place on 
the chair by the bedside. This seemed to content her. 
So I went and whispered to Mr Stoddart, who had stood 
looking on disconsolately : — 

“You heard me say I would visit some of my sick 
people this afternoon. Some will be expecting me with 
certainty. You must go instead of me, and tell them 
that I cannot come, because old Mrs Tomkins is dying; 
but I will see them soon.” 

He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave 
him the necessary directions to find the cottages, and he 
left me. 

I may mention here that this was the beginning of a 
relation between Mr Stoddart and the poor of the parish 
— a very slight one indeed, at first, for it consisted only 
in his knowing two or three of them, so as to ask after 
their health when he met them, and give them an occa- 
sional half-crown. But it led to better things before 
many years had passed. It seems scarcely more than 
yesterday — though it is twenty years ago — that I came 
upon him in the avenue, standing in dismay over the 
fragments of a jug of soup which he had dropped, to the 
detriment of his trousers as well as the loss of his soup. 
“ What am I to do 1 ” he said. “ Poor Jones expects his 
soup to-day.” — “ Why, go back and get some more.” — 
“ But what will cook say I ” The poor man was moro 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


PS 


afraid of the cook than he weald have been of a squad- 
ron of cavalry. “ Never mind the cook. Tell her you 
must have some more as soon as it can be got ready.” 
He stood uncertain for a moment Then his face bright- 
ened. “ I will tell her I want my luncheon. I always 
have soup. And I *11 get out through the greenhouse, and 
carry it to Jones.” — “ Very well,*’ I said; “ that will do 
capitally.” And I went on, without caring to disturb 
my satisfaction by determining whether the devotion of 
his own soup arose more from love to Jones, or fear of 
the cook. He was a great help to me in the latter part 
of his life, especially after I lost good Dr Duncan, and 
my beloved friend Old Rogers. He was just one of 
those men who make excellent front-rank men, but are 
quite unfit for officers. He could do what he was told 
without flinching, but he always required to be told. 

I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old 
woman was again moaning. As soon as I took her 
hand she ceased, and so I sat. till it began to grow 
dark. 

“Are you there, sir?” she would murmur. 

“ Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand.** 

“ I can’t feel you, sir.** 

“But you can hear me. And you can hear God’s 
^ yice in your heart. I am here, though you can’t feel 
me. And God is here, though you can’t see Him.” 

She would be silent for a while, and then murmur 
again — 

“Are you there, Tomkins?** 

“Yes, my woman, I’m here,” answered the old nui 


5t6 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


to one of these questions , “ but I wish I was there in- 
stead, wheresomever it be as you ’re goin’, old girl.” 

And all that I could hear of her answer was, “ Bym 
by > bym by.” 

Why should I linger over the death-bed of an illiterate 
woman, old and plain, dying away by inches? Is it 
only that she died with a hold of my hand, and that 
therefore I am interested in the story 1 1 trust not. I 
was interested in Why? Would my readers be 

more interested if I told them of the death of a young 
lovely creature, who said touching things, and died 
amidst a circle of friends, who felt that the very light of 
life was being taken away from them ? It was enough 
for me that here was a woman with a heart like my own ; 
who needed the same salvation I needed ; to whom the 
love of God was the one blessed thing , who was passing 
through the same dark passage into the light that the 
Lord had passed through before her, that I had to pass 
through after her. She had no theories — at least, she 
gave utterance to none ; she had few thoughts of her 
own — and gave still fewer of them expression ; you 
might guess at a true notion in her mind, but an abstract 
idea she could scarcely lay hold of ; her speech was very 
common; her manner rather brusque than gentle; but 
she could love ; she could forget herself ; she could be 
sorry for what she did or thought wrong; she could 
hope ; she could wish to be better ; she could admire 
good people ; she could trust in God her Saviour. And 
now the lot ing God-made human heart in her was going 


A SERMON TO MYSELF. 


5*7 


into a new school that it might begin a fresh beautiful 
growth. She was old, I have said, and plain ; but now 
her old age and plainness were about to vanish, and all 
that had made her youth attractive to young Tomkins 
was about to return to her, only rendered tenfold more 
beautiful by the growth of fifty years of learning accord- 
ing to her ability. God has such patience in working us 
into vessels of honour ! in teaching us to be children I 
And shall we find the human heart in which the gfrms 
of all that is noblest and loveliest and likest to God have 
begun to grow and manifest themselves uninteresting, 
because its circumstances have been narrow, bare, and 
poverty-stricken, though neither sordid nor unclean; 
because the woman is old and wrinkled and brown, as 
if these were more than the transient accidents of hu- 
manity; because she has neither learned grammar nor 
philosophy ; because her habits have neither been deli- 
cate nor self-indulgent] To help the mind of such a 
woman to unfold to the recognition of the endless de- 
lights of truth ; to watch the dawn of the rising intelli- 
gence upon the too still face, and the transfiguration of 
the whole form, as the gentle rusticity vanishes in yet 
gentler grace, is a labour and a delight worth the time 
and mind of an archangel. Our best living poet says — 
but no ; I will not quote. It is a distinct wrong that 
befalls the best books to have many of their best words 
quoted till in their own place and connexion they cease 
to have force and influence. The meaning of the pas- 
sage is that the communication of truth is one of the 


5s8 annals of a quiet neighbourhoooi 


greatest delights the human heart can experience. Surely 
this is true. Does not the teaching of men form a great 
part of the divine gladness 1 
Therefore even the dull approaches of death are full 
of deep significance and warm interest to one who loves 
his fellows, who desires not to be distinguished by any 
better fate than theirs; and shrinks from the pride of 
supposing that his own death, or that of the noblest of 
the good, is more precious in the sight of God than that 
of “ one of the least of these little ones.” 

At length, after a long silence, the peculiar sounds of 
/>bstructed breathing indicated the end at hand. The 
jaw fell, and the eyes were fixed. The old man dosed 
the mouth and the eyes of his old companion, weeping 
like a child, and I prayed aloud, giving thanks to God 
for taking her to Himself. It went to my heart to leave 
the old man alone with the dead; but it was better to 
let him be alone for a while, ere the women should 
come to do the last offices for the abandoned form. 

I went to Old Rogers, told him the state in which I 
had left poor Tomkins, and asked him what was to be 
done. 

“ I *11 go and bring him home, sir, directly. He can*t 
be left there.” 

“ But how can you bring him in such a night 1 ” 

“ Let me see, sir. I must think. Would your mare 
go in a cart, do you think 1 ” 

“ Quite quietly. She brought a load of gravel firom 
the common a few days ago. But where’s your cart I 
I haven’t got one.” 


A SIRMON TO MYSILF. 




‘‘There’s one at Weir’s to be repaired, sir. It 
wouldn’t be stealing to borrow it” 

How he managed with Tomkins I do not know. I 
thought it better to leave all the rest to him. He only 
said afterwards, that he could hardly get the old man 
away from the body. But when I went in next day, I 
found Tomkins sitting, disconsolate, but as comfortable 
as he could be, in the easy chair by the side of the fire. 
Mrs Rogers was bustling about cheerily. The storm 
had died in the night. The sun was shining. It was 
the first of the spring weather. The whole country was 
gleaming with water. But soon it would sink away, and 
Uic grass be the thicker for its rising. 

2L 


CHAPTER XXXL 


A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 

reader will easily believe that I returned 
home that Sunday evening somewhat jaded, 
nor will he be surprised if I say that next 
morning I felt disinclined to leave my bed. 
I was able, however, to rise and go, as I have said, to 
Old Rogers’s cottage. 

But when I came home, I could no longer conceal 
from myself that I was in danger of a return of my last 
attack. I had been sitting for hours in wet clothes, 
with my boots full of water, and now I had to suffer 
for it But as I was not to blame in the matter, and 
had no choice offered me whether I should be wet or 
dry while I sat by the dying woman, I felt no depression 
at the prospect of the coming illness. Indeed, I was too 
much depressed fiom other causes, from mental strife 
and hopelessness, to care much whether I was well or 
ill 1 could have welcomed death in the mood in which 



A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 


S3I 


I sometimes felt myself during the next few days, when 
I was unable to leave my bed, and knew that Captain 
Everard was at the Hall, and knew nothing besides. 
For no voice reached me from that quarter any more 
than if Oldcastle Hall had been a region beyond the 
grave. Miss Oldcastle seemed to have vanished from 
my ken as much as Catherine Weir and Mrs Tomkins 
—yes, more — for there was only death between these 
and me; whereas, there was something far worse — I 
could not always tell what — that rose ever between 
Miss Oldcastle and myself, and paralysed any effort I 
might fancy myself on the point of making for her 
rescue. 

One pleasant thing happened. On the Thursday, I 
think it was, I felt better. My sister came into my room 
and said that Miss Crowther had called, and wanted to 
see me. 

“ Which Miss Crowther is it ? ” I asked. 

“The little lady that looks like a bird, and chirps 
when she talks.” 

Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which 
of them it was. 

“ You told her I had a bad cold, did you not? ” 

“ Oh, yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will 
do you no harm to see her.” 

“ But you told her I was in bed, didn’t you?” 

“ Of course. But it makes no difference. She says 
she ’s used to seeing sick folk in bed ; and if you don’t 
mind seeing her, she doesn'“ mind seeing you.” 

“ Well, I suppose I must see her,” I said. 


53* ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 


So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced 
Miss Crowther. 

“ O dear Mr Walton, I am so sorry ! But you *re not 
very ill, are you 1 ” 

‘‘ I hope not. Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think 
this morning that I am going to get off easier than I 
expected.” 

“ I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won’t keep 
you, and it is a matter of some importance. I hear that 
one of your people is dead, a young woman of the name 
of Weir, who has left a little boy behind her. Now, I 
have been wanting for a long time to adopt a child 

“ But,” I interrupted her, What would Miss Hester 
say?” 

“ My sister is not so very dreadful as perhaps you think 
her, Mr Walton ; and besides, when I do want my own 
way very particularly, which is not often, for there are 
not so many things that it ’s worth while insisting upon— 
but when I do want my own way, I always have it. I 
then stand upon my right of — what do you call it ? — 
primo — primogeniture— that’s it ! Well, ! think I know 
something of this child’s father. I am sorry to say I 
don’t know much good of him, and that ’s the worse for 
the boy. Still ” 

The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child, 
whoever was his father,” I interposed. 

“ I am very glad to hear it I am the more deter- 
mined to adopt him. What friends has he?” 

“ He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and 
will have a godfather — that ’s me — in a few days, I hope." 


A COU>CIL or FRIENDS. 


U3 


“ I am very glad to hear it. There will be no oppo- 
sition on the part of the relatives, I presume 1 ” 

“ T am not so sure of that I fear I shall object for 
one, Miss Jemima.” 

‘‘You? I didn't expect that of you, Mr Walton, I 
must say.” 

And there was a tremor in the old lady’s voice more 
of disappointment and hurt than of anger. 

I will think it over, though, and talk about it to his 
grandfather, and we shall find out what’s best, I do 
hope. You must not think I should not like you to 
have him.” 

** Thank you, Mr Walton. Then I won’t stay longer 
now. But I warn you I will call again very soon, if you 
don’t come to see me. Good morning.” 

And the dear old lady shook hands with me and left 
me rather hurriedly, turning at the door, however, to 
add— 

** Mind, I ’ve set my heart upon having the boy, Mr 
Walton. I ’ve seen him often.” 

What could have made Miss Crowther take such a 
fancy to the boy ? I could not help associating it with 
what I had heard of her youthful disappointment, but 
never having had my conjectures confirmed, I will say 
no more about them. Of course I talked the matter 
over with Thomas Weir; but, as I had suspected, I 
found that he was no'^' as unwilling to part with the boy 
as he had formerly disliked the sight of him. Nor did 
I press the matter at all, having a belief that the circun*- 
stances of one’s natal position are not to be rudely 


534 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOODi 


handled or thoughtlessly altered, besides that I thought 
Thomas and his daughter ought to have all the comfort 
and good that were to be got from the presence of the 
boy whose advent had occasioned them so much trouble 
and sorrow, yea, and sin too. But I did not give a 
positive and final refusal to Miss Crowther. I only said 
** for the present ; ” for I did not feel at liberty to go 
further. I thought that such changes might take place 
as would render the trial of such a new relationship 
desirable ; as, indeed, it turned out in the end, though 
I cannot tell the story now, but must keep it for a 
possible future. 

I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these 
memoirs, the plan of relating either those things only at 
which I was present, or, if other things, only in the same 
mode in which I heard them. I will now depart from 
this plan — for once. Years passed before some of the 
following facts were reported to me, but it is only here 
that they could be interesting to my readers. 

At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as 
nearly as I can guess. Old Rogers turned into Thomas 
Weir’s workshop. The usual, on the present occasion 
somewhat melancholy, greetings having passed between 
them, Old Rogers said — 

** Don’t you think, Mr Weir, there’s summat the 
matter wi’ parson 1 ” 

** Overworked,” returned Weir. “ He ’s lost two, ye 
see, and had to see them both safe over, as I may say, 
within the same day. He’s got a bad cold, I’m sorry 
to hear, besides. Have ye heard of him to-day I” 


I 


A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 


SSI 


“ Yes, yes ; he 's badly, and in bed. But that 's not 
what I mean. There *s summat on his mind,^* said Old 
Rogers. 

‘Well, I don’t think it’s for you or me to meddle 
with parson’s mind,” returned Weir. 

“ I *m not so sure o’ that,” persisted Rogers. “ But 
if I had thought, Mr Weir, as how you would be ready 
to take me up short for mentionin’ of the thing, I 
wouldn’t ha’ opened my mouth to you about parson — 
’.eastways, in that way, I mean.” 

“ But what way do you mean. Old Rogers I ” 

“ Why, about his in’ards, you know.” 

“ I ’m no nearer your meanin* yet” 

“ Well, Mr Weir, you and me *s two old fellows, now 
— leastways I ’m a deal older than you. But that doesn’t 
signify to what I want to say.” 

And here Old Rogers stuck fast — according to Weir’s 
story. 

“ It don’t seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers,” said 
Weir. 

Well, it ain’t. So I must just let it go by the run, 
and hope the parson, who ’ll never know, would forgive 
me if he did.” 

“ Well, then, what is itt” 

“ It ’s my opinion that that parson o’ ours — ^you see^ 
w 5 knows about it, Mr Weir, though we ’re not gentle- 
folks — leastways, I ’m none.” 

“ Now, what d6 you mean, Old Rogers'?” 

“ Well, I means this — as how parson ’s in love. Therc^ 
that ’s paid out” 


536 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 


“ Suppose he was, I don’t see yet what business that 
is of yours or mine either.” 

“ Well, I do. I ’d go to Davie Jones for that man." 

A heathenish expression, perhaps ; but Weir assured 
me, with much amusement in his tone, that those were 
the very words Old Rogers used. Leaving the expres 
sion aside, will the reader think for a moment oh the 
old man’s reasoning ? My condition was his business ; 
for he was ready to die for me ! Ah ! love does indeed 
make us all each other’s keeper, just as we were intended 
to be. 

“ But what can we do % ” returned Weir. 

Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old 
man, that he was busy with a coffin for his daughter, 
who was lying dead down the street. And so my poor 
affairs were talked of over the coffin-planks. Well, well, 
it was no bad omen. 

“ I tell you what, Mr Weir, this here’s a serious busi- 
ness. And it seems to me it ’s not shipshape o’ you to 
go on with that plane o’ yours, when we ’re talkin’ about 
parson.” 

“ Well, Old Rogers, I meant no offence. Here goes. 
NoWy what have you to say? Though if it’s offenc<» 
to parson you ’re speakin’ of, I know, if I were parson, 
who I ’d think was takin’ the greatest liberty, me wi’ my 
plane, or you wi* your fancies.” 

“ Belay there, and hearken.” 

So Old Rogers went into as many particulars as he 
thought fit, to prove that his suspicion as to the state of 
my mind was correct ; which particulars T do not care 


A COUNCIL OF FAIINDS. 


539 


to lay in a collected form before my reader, he being in 
no need of such a summing up to give, his verdict, seeing 
the parson has already pleaded guilty. When he had 
finished, 

** Supposing all you say. Old Rogers,” remarked Tho” 
mas, “ I don’t yet see what we *ve got to do with it. 
Parson ought to know best what he ’s about” 

“ But my daughter tells me,” said Rogers, “ that Miss 
Oldcastle has no mind to marry Captain Everard. And 
she thinks if parson would only speak out he might have 
a chance.” 

Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his 
head bent, that Rogers grew impatient. 

“Well, man, ha’ you nothing to say now — not for 
your best friend — on earth, I mean — and that’s parson? 
It may seem a small matter to you, but it ’s no small 
matter to parson.” 

“ Small to me ! ” said Weir, and taking up his tool, a 
constant recourse with him when agitated, he began to 
plane furiously. 

Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he 
had thought, and held his peace and waited. After a 
minute or two of fierce activity, Thomas lifted up a face 
more white than the deal-board he was planing, and said, 

“ You should have come to the point a little sooner. 
Old Rogers.” 

He then laid down his plane, and went out of the 
workshop, leaving Rogers standing there in bewilder- 
ment But he was not gone many minutes. He re 
*urned with a letter in his hand. 


53* ANNALS OF A QUIET NBIGHBOURHOOa 


“ There, he said, giving it to Rogers. 

I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers. “ 1 
ha’ enoifgh ado with straight-foret print. But I ’ll takr 
it to parson.” 

“ On no account,” returned Thomas, emphatically 

That’s not what I gave it you for. Neither you noi 
parson has any right to read that letter; and I don’t 
want either of you to read it. Can Jane read writing?” 

** I don’t know as she can, for, you see, what makes 
lasses take to writin’ is when their young man ’s over the 
seas, leastways not in the mill over the brook.” 

“ I ’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking 
the letter from Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again. 

He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an 
envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle. 

“ Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Old- 
castle from me — mind, from me; and she must give it 
into her own hands, and let no one else see it. And I 
must have it again. Mind you tell her all that. Old 
Rogers.” 

“ I will. It ’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to 
know on ’t And you ’re to have it again all safe when 
done with.” 

“ Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it I” 

" I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t 
know any think in the letter now, Mr Weir.” 

“ I know that ; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place, 
And poor Kate ain’t right out o’ bearin’ yet. — ^You’ll 
come and see her buried to-morrow, won’t ye, Old 
Rogers i ” 


A COUNCIL or FRIBNDS^ 


539 


“I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but 
thank God the sun came out a bit before she died.’* 
That’s true, Rogers. It’s all right, I do think, 
though I grumbled long and sore. But Jane mustn’t 
speak of that letter.” 

“ No. That she shan’t.** 

“ I ’ll tell you some day what ’s in it But I can’t 
bear to talk about it yet” 

And so they parted. 

I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my 
dead out of my sight or to comfort my living the next 
Sunday. I got help from Addicehead, however, and the 
dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of 
the tomb. They were both buried by my vestry-door, 
Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, 
in the grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the 
other side of the path. 

On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and 
she carried it to the Hall. It was not till she had to 
wait on her mistress before leaving her for the night 
that she found an opportunity of giving it into her own 
hands. 

Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, 
and found her so pale and haggard that she was fright- 
ened. She had thrown herself back on the couch, with 
her hands lying by her sides, as if she cared for nothing 
in this world or out of it. But when Jane entered, she 
started and sat up, and tried to look like herself. Her 
face, however, was so pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane 
could not help crying, upon which the responsive sister 


540 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


hood overcame the proud lady, and she cried toa 
Jane had all but forgotten the letter, of the import of 
which she had no idea, for her father had taken care 
to rouse no suspicions in her mind. But when she saw 
her cry, the longing to give her something, which comes 
to us all when we witness trouble — for giving seems to 
mean everything — brought to her mind the letter she 
had undertaken to deliver to her. Now she had no 
notion, as I have said, that the letter had anything to 
do with her present perplexity, but she hoped it might 
divert her thoughts for a moment, which is all that love 
at a distance can look for sometimes. 

“ Here is a letter,” said Jane, “ that Mr Weir the 
carpenter gave to my father to give to me to bring to 
you, miss.” 

“ What is it about, Jane ? ” she asked listlessly. 

Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she 
held out her hand eagerly to take it. She opened it 
and read it with changing colour, but when she had 
finished it, her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes 
glowing like fire. 

“The wretch,” she said, and threw the letter from 
her into the middle of the floor. 

Jane, who remembered the injunctions of her fathei 
as to the safety and return of the letter, stooped to 
pick it up : but had hardly raised herself when the door 
opened, and in came Mrs Oldcastle. The moment she 
saw her mother, Ethelwyn rose, and advancing to meel 
her, said^ 


A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 


54* 


** Mother, I will not marry that man. You may do 
what you please with me, but I will notl* 

** Heigho ! ” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle with spread 
nostrils, and turning suddenly upon Jane, snatched the 
letter out of her hand. 

She opened and read it, her face getting more still 
and stony as she read. Miss Oldcastle stood and looked 
at her mother with cheeks now pale but with still flash- 
ing eyes. The moment her mother had finished the 
letter, she walked swiftly to the fire, tearing the letter 
as she went, and thrust it between the bars, pushing it 
in fiercely with the poker, and muttering — 

“ A vile forgery of those low Chartist wretches ! As 
if he would ever have looked at one of their women ! 
A low conspiracy to get money from a gentleman in his 
honourable position ! ” 

And for the first time since she went to the Hall, 
Jane said, there was colour in that dead white face. 

She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, 
and in a tone of rage under powerful repression, be- 
gan:— 

“ You leave the house — this instant^ 

The last two words, notwithstanding her self-com- 
mand, rose to a scream. And she came from the fire 
towaids Jane, who stood trembling near the door, with 
such an expression on her countenance that absolute 
fear drove her from the room before she knew what 
she was about The locking of the door behind her 
i^er know that she had abandoned her young mit 


542 ANNALS OF A QUIET N EIGHBOURHOODu 


tress to the madness of her mother’s evil temper and 
disposition. But it was too late. She lingered by the 
door and listened, but beyond an occasional hoarse 
tone of suppressed energy, she heard nothing. At 
length the lock as suddenly turned, and she was sur- 
prised by Mrs Oldcastle, if not in a listening attitude, 
at least where she had no right to be after the dismissal 
she had received. 

Opposite Miss Oldcastle’s bedroom was anotner, 
seldom used, the door of which was now standing open. 
Instead of speaking to Jane, Mrs Oldcastle gave her a 
violent push, which drove her into this room. There- 
upon she shut the door and locked it Jane spent the 
whole of the night in that room, in no small degree of 
trepidation as to what might happen next But she 
heard no noise all the rest of the night, part of which, 
however, was spent in sound sleep, for Jane’s conscience 
was ini no ways disturbed as to any part she had played 
in the current events. 

It was not till the morning that she examined the 
door, to see if she could not manage to get out and 
escape from the house, for she shared with the rest of 
the family an indescribable fear of Mrs Oldcastle and 
her confidante, the White Wolf. But she found it was 
of no use : the lock was at least as strong as the door. 
Being a sensible girl and self-possessed, as her parents’ 
child ought to be, she made no noise, but waited 
patiently for what might come. At length, hearing a 
step in the passage, she tapped gently at the door and 
called, “ Who ’s there 1 ” The cook’s voice answered. 


A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 


543 


" Let me out,” said Jane. ‘‘ The door’s locked.” 

The cook tried, but found there was no key. Jane 
told her how she came there, and the cook promised 
to get her out as soon as she could Meantime all she 
could do for her was to hand her a loaf of bread on a 
stick from the next window. It had been long dark 
before some one unlocked the door, and left her at 
liberty to go where she pleased, of which she did not 
fail to make immediate use. 

Unable to find her young mistress, she packed her 
box, and, leaving it behind her, escaped to her father. 
As soon as she had told him the stoiy, he came straight 
to me. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


THE NEXT THING. 

S I sat in my study, in the twilight of that 
same day, the door was hurriedly opened, 
and Judy entered. She looked about the 
room with a quick glance to see that we 
were alone, then caught my hand in both of hers, and 
burst out crying. 

“ Why, Judy ! ” I said, “ what is the matter I” 

But the sobs would not allow her to answer. I was 
too frightened to put any more questions, and so stood 
silent — my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited 
for death to fill it. At length with a strong effort she 
checked the succession of her sobs, and spoke. 

‘‘They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost 
already,” said the child, again bursting into tears. 

“Tell me, Judy, what can I do for herl” 

“You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved bet 
as much as I do, you would find out what to do.” 



THE NEXT THING. 


545 


“ But she will not let me do anything for her.” 

“ Yes, she will. She says you promised to help hei 
some day.” 

“ Did she send you, then 1 ” 

“ No. She did not send me.** 

“ Then how — what — what can I do!*^ 

“ Oh, you exact people ! You must have everything 
square and in print before you move. If it had been 
me now, wouldn*t I have been off like a shot ! Do gel 
your hat, Mr Walton.” 

Come, then, Judy. I will go at once. — Shall I see 
her?” 

And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing 
her from her persecutors, though I had not yet the 
smallest idea how it was to be effected. 

<‘We will talk about that as we go,*’ said Judy, 
authoritatively. 

In a moment more we were in the open air. It was 
a still night, with an odour of damp earth, and a hint 
of green buds in it A pale half-moon hung in the sky, 
now and then hidden by the clouds that swept acro.v 
it, io» there was wind in the heavens, though upon earth 
all was still. I offered Judy my arm, but she took my 
hand, and we walked on without a word till we had got 
through the village and out upon the road. 

“ Now, Judy,” I said at last, “ tell me what they are 
doing to your aunt ? ” 

“ I don’t know whai they are doing. But I am sure 
^e will die.” 

Is she mi” 


t If 


54^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOIX 


“ She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave hex 
room. Grannie must have frightened her dreadfully. 
Everybody is frightened at her but me, and I begin to 
be frightened too. And what will become of auntie 
then?” 

“ Put what can her mother do to her?” 

“ I don’t know. I think it is her determination lo 
have her own way that makes auntie afraid she will get 
it somehow ; and she says now she will rather die than 
marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one allowed 
to wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of 
her is enough to turn auntie sick almost What has 
become of Jane I don’t know. I haven’t seen her all 
day, and the servants are whispering together more 
than usual. Auntie can’t eat what Sarah brings her, I 
am sure ; else I should almost fancy she was starving 
herself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard.” 

“Is he still at the Hall?” 

“Yes. But I don’t think it is altogether his fault 
Grannie won’t let him go. I don’t believe he knows 
how determined auntie is not to marry him. Only, to 
be sure, though grannie never lets her have more than 
five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worth 
something when she is married.” 

“ ir ^tiling can make her worth more than she is, 
Judy,” I said, perhaps with some discontent in my tone. 

“That’s as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as 
grannie and the captain think at all. I daresay he would 
not care much more than grannie whether she was will* 
ing or not, so long as she married him.” 


THE NEXT THING. 


54J 


** But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we 
reach the Hall ; else my coming will be of no use.” 

“ Of course. I know how much I can do, and you 
must arrange the rest with her. I will take you to the 
little room up-stairs— we call it the octagon. That you 
know is just under auntie’s room. They will be at din- 
ner — the captain and grannie. I will leave you tliere^ 
and tell auntie that you want to see her.” 

« But, Judy, 

“ Don’t you want to see her, Mr Walton 1 ” 

" Yes, I do ; more than you can think ” 

" Then I will tell her so.” 

** But will she come to me ? ” 

“ I don’t know. We have to find that out.” 

** Very well. I leave myself in your hands.” 

I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and 
distress were gone, for I had something to do, although 
what I could not yet tell. That she did not love Cap- 
tain Everard was plain, and that she had as yet resisted 
her mother was also plain, though it was not equally 
certain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to 
resist her. This was what I hoped to strengthen her to 
do. I saw nothing more within my reach as yet. But 
from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, I saw plainly 
enough that no greater good could be done for her than 
this enabling to resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign 
to her nature, that it needed a sense of duty to rouse her 
even to self-defence. As I have said before, she was 
clad in the mail of endurance, but was utterly without 
weapons. An^ there was a danger of her conduct and 


54^ ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


then of her mind giving way at last, from the gradual 
inroads of weakness upon the thews which she left un- 
exercised. In respect of this^ I prayed heartily that I 
might help her. 

Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from tlic 
moment we entered the gate till I found myself at a 
side door which I had never observed till now. It was 
fastened, and Judy told me to wait till she went in and 
opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and I 
was under no apprehension of discovery. While I stood 
there I could not help thinking of Dr Duncan’s story, 
and reflecting that the daughter was now returning the 
kindness shown to the mother. 

I had not to wait long before the door opened behind 
me noiselessly, and I stepped into the dark house. Judy 
took me by the hand, and led me along a passage, and 
then up a stair into the little drawing-room. There was 
no light. She led me to a seat at the farther end, and 
opening a door close beside me, left me in the dark. 

There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, 
broken ever by startled expectation. Castle after castle 
I built up ; castle after castle fell to pieces in my hands. 
Still she did not come. At length I got so restless and 
excited that only the darkness kept me from starting up 
and pacing the room. Still she did not con^, and partly 
from weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found my- 
self beginning to tremble all over. Nor could I control 
myself. As the trembling increased, I grew alarmed lest 
I should become unable to carry out all that might be 
necessaiy. 


THE NEXT THING. 


549 


Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my 
arm. I looked up and could just see the whiteness of a 
face. Before I could speak, a voice said brokenly, in a 
half-whisper : — 

“ JViU you save me, Mr Walton 1 But you *re trem- 
bling ; you are ill ; you ought not to have come to me. 
I will get you something.” 

And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trem- 
bling was gone in a moment. Her words, so careful of 
me even in her deep misery, went to my heart and gave 
me strength. The suppressed feelings of many months 
rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I 
know that I told her I loved her. And I know that she 
did not draw her hand from mine when I said so. 

But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling. 

“ Forgive me,” I said, “ I am selfishness itself to speak 
to you thus now, to take advantage of your misery to 
make you listen to mine. But, at least, it will make you 
sure that if all I am, all I have will save you ** 

“ But I am saved already,” she interposed, “ if you 
love me — for I love you.” 

And for some moments there were no words to speak. 
I stood holding her hand, conscious only of God and 
her. At last I said : 

“ There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see 
anything but to go with me at once. Will you come 
home to my sister? Or I will take you wherever you 
please.” 

“ I will go with you anywhere you think best Onlj 
take me away.” 


55® ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


“ Put on your bonnet then, and a warm cloak, and 
we will settle all about it as we go.” 

She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle 
came to the door. 

No lights here ! ” she said. “ Sarah, bring candles, 
and tell Captain Everard, when he will join us, to come 
to the octagon room. Where can that little Judy bel 
The child gets more and more troublesome, I do think. 
I must take her in hand.” 

I had been in great perplexity how to let her know 
that I was there ; for to announce yourself to a lady by 
a voice out of the darkness of her boudoir, or to wait 
for candles to discover you where she thought she was 
quite alone — neither is a pleasant way of presenting 
yourself to her consciousness. But I was helped out of 
the beginning into the middle of my difficulties, once 
more by that blessed little Judy. I did not know she 
was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor do I yet 
know how much she had heard of the conversation be- 
tween her aunt and myself; for although I sometimes 
see her look roguish even now that she is a middle- 
aged woman with many children, when anything is said 
which might be supposed to have a possible reference 
to that night, I have never cared to ask her. 

“ Here I am, grannie,” said her voice. “ But 1 
won't be taken in hand by you or any one else. I 
tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is here, 
too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a 
long walk.” 

“What do you mean, you silly child?” 


THE NEXT THING. 


5?* 


I mean what I say,” and “ Miss Judy speaks the 
tnith,” fell together from her lips and mine. 

Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, " it 
is scarcely like a gentleman to come where you are not 
wanted 

Here Judy interrupted her. 

“ I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton was wanted 
— very much wanted. I went and fetched him.” 

But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding. 

“ and to be sitting in my room in the dark 

too!” 

“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes 
Sarah with candles.” 

“ Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ ask Captain Everard 
lo be kind enough to step this way.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable 
look at me as she set down the candles. 

We could now see each other. Knowing words to 
be but idle breath, I would not complicate matters by 
speech, but stood silent, regarding Mrs Oldcastle. She 
on her part did not flinch, but returned my look with 
one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few mo- 
ments, Captain Everard entered, bowed slightly, and 
looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if for an explanation. 
Whereupon she spoke, but to me. 

“ Mr Walton,” she said, “ will you explain to Captain 
Everard to what we owe the unexpected pleasure of a 
Wsit from you % ” 

“Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation 
from me, To you, Mrs Oldcastle, I would have an* 


5$S ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


swered, had you asked me, that I was waiting for Mist 
Oldcastle.” 

“ Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton 
insists upon seeing her at once.” - 

“ That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be 
here presently,” I said. 

Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with trath. She 
was always white, as I have said : the change I can 
describe only by the word I have used, indicating a 
bluish darkening of the whiteness. She walked towards 
the door beside me. I stepped between her and it. 

“ Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to 
Miss Oldcastle’s room. I am here to protect her.” 

Without saying a word she turned and looked at 
Captain Everard. He advanced with a long stride of 
determination. But ere he reached me, the door be 
hind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her 
bonnet and shawl, carrying a small bag in her hand. 
Seeing how things were, the moment she entered, she 
put her hand on my arm, and stood fronting the enemy 
with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing, and 
her cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do 
battle i toute outrance for her friends. 

“ Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I com- 
mand you,” said her mother ; and she approached as if 
to remove her hand from my arm. I put my other 
arm between her and her daughter. 

“ No, Mrs Oldcastle,” I said. “ You have lost all a 
mother’s rights by ceasing to behave like a mother. 
Miss Oldcastle will never more do anything in obedi 


THK NEXT THINa 


5S3 


ence to youi commands^ whatever she may do in com- 
pliance with your wishes.” 

** Allow me to remark,” said Captain Everard, with 
attempted nonchalance, “that that is strange doctrine 
for your cloth.” 

“ So much the worse for my cloth, then,” I answered, 
“and the better for yours if it leads you to act more 
honourably.” 

Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of 
a supercilious indifference, he smiled haughtily, and 
gave a look of dramatic appeal to Mrs Oldcastle. 

“ At least,” said that lady, “ do not disgrace yourself, 
Ethelwyn, by leaving the house in this unaccountable 
manner at night and on foot. If you will leave the 
protection of your mother’s roof, wait at least till to- 
morrow.” 

“ I would rather spend the night in the open air 
than pass another under your roof, mother. You have 
been a strange mother to me — and Dorothy too ! ” 

“ At least do not put your character in question by 
going in this unmaidenly fashion. People will talk to 
your prejudice — and Mr Walton’s too.” 

Ethelwyn smiled. — She was now as collected as I. 
was, seeming to have cast off all her weakness. My 
heart was uplifted more than I can say. — She knew 
lier mother too well to be caught by the change in her 
tone. 

I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she 
took the answer upon herself, for she was not one to 
be checked when she chose to speak. But now she 


554 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


answered nothing, only looked at me, and I understood 
her, of course. 

“ They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before 
it will be out of their power. It rests with Miss Old- 
eastle herself to say when that shall be.” 

As if she had never suspected that such was the 
result of her scheming, Mrs Oldcastle’s demeanour 
changed utterly. The form of her visage was altered. 
She made a spring at her daughter, and seized her by 
the arm. 

“ Then I forbid it,” she screamed ; “ and I will be 
obeyed. I stand on my rights. Go to your room, you 
minx.” 

“There is no law human or divine to prevent her 
from marrying whom she will. How old are you, 
Ethelwyn ? ” 

I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was. 

“ Twenty-seven,” answered Miss Oldcastle. 

“ Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, 
as to think you have the slightest hold on your 
daughter’s freedom 1 Let her arm go.” 

But she kept her grasp. 

“ You hurt me, mother,” said Miss Oldcastle. 

“ Hurt you ? you smooth-faced hypocrite ! I will 
nurt you then ! ” 

But I took Mrs Oldcastle’s arm in my hand, and she 
1*1 go her hold. 

“ How dare you touch a woman 1 ” she said. 

“ Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to 
torture her own daughter.” 


THE NEXT THlNGk 


55S 


Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,— 

** The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time 
for the military to interfere.” 

“ Well put, Captain Everard,” I said. “ Our side will 
disperse if you will only leave room for us to go.” 

Possibly / may have something to say in the 
matter.” 

“ Say on.” 

** This lady has jilted me.*^ 

Have you, Ethelwyn 1 ** 

** I have not.” 

“ Then, Captain Everard, you lie.* 

“ You dare to tell me sol ” 

And he strode a pace nearer. 

‘‘It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so 
does another who trusted you and found you false as 
hell” 

“ You presume on your cloth, but ■” he said, lift- 

ing his hand. 

“ You may strike me, presuming on my cloth,” I an- 
swered j “ and I will not return your blow. Insult me 
as you will, and I will bear it. Call me coward, and 1 
will say nothing. But lay one hand on me to prevent 
me from doing my duty, and I knock you down — or find 
you more of a man than I take you for.” 

It was either conscience or something not so good 
that made a coward of him. He turned on his heel. 

“ I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to 
oppose you. You may take the girl for me. Both your 
cloth and the presence of ladies protect your insolence 


55^ ANNA.LS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I do not like brawling where one cannot fight You 
jhall hear from me before long, Mr Walton.” 

“ No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you 
Vou know you dare not write to me. I know that of 
you which, even on the code of the duellist, would justify 
any gentleman in refusing to meet you. Stand out of 
my way ! ” 

I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew 
back ; and we left the room. 

As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw 
he: arms round her aunt’s neck, then round mine, kiss- 
ing us both, and returned to her place on the sofa. Mrs 
Oldcastle gave a scream, and sunk fainting on a chair 
It was a last effort to detain her daughter and gain time. 
Miss Oldcastle would have returned, but I would not 
permit her. 

No,” I said ; “ she will be better without you. Judy, 
ring the bell for Sarah.” 

" How dare vou give orders in my house 1 ” exclaimed 
Mrs Oldcastle, sitting bolt upright in the chair, and 
shaking her fist at us. Then assuming the heroic, she 
added, “ From this moment she is no daughter of mine. 
Nor can you touch one farthing of her money, sir. You 
have married a beggar after all, and that you’ll both 
know before long.” 

** Thy money perish with thee ! ” I said, and repented 
the moment I had said it It sounded like an impreca- 
tion, and I know I had no correspondent feeling ; for, 
after all, she was the mother of my Ethelwyn But the 


THE NEXT THINO. 


S5T 


allusion to money made me so indignant, that the words 
burst from me ere I could consider their import. 

The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God, as 
we left the house and closed the door behind us. The 
moon was shining from the edge of a vaporous moun- 
tain, which gradually drew away from her, leaving her 
alone in the midst of a lake of blue. But we had not 
gone many paces from the house when Miss Oldcastle 
bfegan to tremble violently, and could scarcely get along 
with all the help I could give her. Nor, for the space 
of six weeks did one word pass between us about the 
painful occurrences of that evening. For all that time 
she was quite unable to bear it. 

When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I 
gave her in charge to my sister, with instructions to help 
her to bed at once, while I w snt for Dr Duncan. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


OLD ROGERSES rHANKSGIVINO. 

FOUND the old man seated at his dinnei^ 
which he left immediately when he heard 
that Miss Oldcastle needed his help. In a 
few words I told him, as we went, the story 
of what had befallen at the Hall, to which he listened 
with the interest of a boy reading a romance, asking 
twenty questions about the particulars which I hurried 
over. Then he shook me warmly by the har d, saying — 

“ You have fairly won her, Walton, and 1 ?.s glad 

of it as I could be of anything I can thir.k of She is 
well worth all you must have suffered. This will at 
length remove the curse from that wretched family. 
You have saved her from perhaps even a v/orse fate 
than her sister’s.” 

“ I fear she will be ill, though,” I said, ** after all that 
•he has gone through.” 

But I did not even suspect how ill she would be. 



OLD ROGERS’s THANKSGIVING. 


559 


As soon as I heard Dr Duncan’s opinion of her, which 
was not very definite, a great fear seized upon me that 
I was destined to lose her after all This fear, however, 
terrible as it was, did not torture me like the fear that 
had preceded it. I could oftener feel able to say, “ Thy 
will be done ” than I could before. 

Dr Duncan was hardly out of the house when Old 
Rogers arrived, and was shown into the study. He 
looked excited. I allowed him to tell out his story, 
which was his daughter’s of course, without interruption. 
He ended by saying : — 

“ Now, sir, you really must do summat. This won’t 
do in a Christian country. We ain’t aboard ship here 
with a nor’-easter a-walkin’ the quarter-deck.” 

“ There ’s no occasion, my dear old fellow, to do any- 
thing.” 

He was taken aback. 

“ Well, I don’t understand you, Mr Walton. You 're 
the last man I ’d have expected to hear argufy for faith 
without works. It ’s right to trust in God ; but if you 
don’t stand to your halliards, your craft ’ll miss stays, 
and your faith ’ll be blown out of the bolt-ropes in the 
turn of a marlinspike.” 

I suspect there was some confusion in the figure, but 
the old man’s meaning was plain enough. Nor would I 
keep him in a moment more of suspense. 

“ Miss Oldcastle is in the house. Old Rogers,” I said. 

‘*What house, sirl” returned the old man, his gray 
eyes opening wider as he spoke. 

** This house, to be sure.” 


56 o annais of a quiet neighbourhood. 


I shall never forget the look the old man cast upwards, 
or the reality given to it by the ordinarily odd sailor- 
fashion of pulling his forelock, as he returned inward 
thanks to the Father of all for His kindness to his friend 
And never in my now wide circle of readers shall I find 
one, the most educated and responsive, who will listen 
to my story with a more gracious interest than that old 
man showed as I recounted to him the adventures of the 
evening. There were few to whom I could have told 
them : to Old Rogers I felt that it was right and natuial 
and dignified to tell the story even of my love’s victory. 

How then am I able to tell it to the world as now 1 
I can easily explain the seeming inconsistency. It is 
not merely that I am speaking, as I have said before, 
from behind a screen, or as clothed in the coat of dark- 
ness of an anonymous writer ; but I find that, as I come 
nearer and nearer to the invisible world, all my brothers 
and sisters grow dearer and dearer to me ; I feel towards 
them more and more as the children of my Father in 
heaven ; and although some of them are good children 
and some naughty children, some very lovable and some 
hard to love, yet I never feel that they are below me, 
or unfit to listen to the story even of my love, if they 
only care to listen ; and if they do not care, there is no 
harm done, except they read it. Even should they, and 
then scoff at what seemed and seems to me the precious 
story, I have these defences ; first, that it was not for 
them that I cast forth my precious pearls, for precious 
to me is the significance of every fact in my history — 
not that it is mine, for I have only been as clay in the 


OLD KOGERS'S THANKSGIVING. 


S6| 


hands of the potter, but that it is God’s, who made my 
history as it seemed and was good to Him ; and second, 
that even should they trample them under their feet, they 
cannot well get at me to rend me. And more, the 
nearer I come to the region beyond, the more I feel 
tnat in that land a man needs not shrink from uttering 
liis deepest thoughts, inasmuch as he that understands 
them not will not therefore revile him. — “ But you are 
not there yet You are in the land in which the brother 
speaketh evil of that which he understandeth not.” — 
Tiue, friend; too true. But I only do as Dr Donne 
did in writing that poem in his sickness, when he thought 
he was near to the world of which we speak ; I rehearse 
now, that I may find it easier then. 


“ Since I am coming to that holy room, 

Where, with the choir of saints for evermore 
I shall be made thy mnsic, as I come, 

I tune the instrument here at the door ; 

And what I must do then, think here before.*’ 

When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my 
hand, and said : — 

“ Mr Walton, you wi// preach now. I thank God for 
the good we shall all get from the trouble you have gone 
through.” 

“ I ought to be the better for it,” I answered. 

" You wt// be the better for it,” he returned. “ I be- 
lieve I 've alius been the better for any trouble as ever 
I had to go through with. I couldn’t quite say the same 
for every bit of good luck I had : leastways, I considei 


$62 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


trouble the best luck a man can have. And I wish you 
a good night, sir. Thank God ! again.” 

** But, Rogers, you don^t mean it would be good foi 
us to have bad luck always, do you 1 You shouldn’t be 
pleased at what ’s come to me now, in that case.” 

No, sir, sartinly not” 

“ How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best 
luck?” 

“ I mean the bad luck that comes to us — not the bad 
luck that doesn’t come. But you’re right, sir. Good 
luck or bad luck ’s both best when He sends ’em, as He 
alius does. In fac’, sir, there is no bad luck but what 
comes out o’ the man hisself. The rest ’s all good.” 

But whether it was the consequence of a reaction from 
the mental strain I had suffered, or the depressing effect 
of Miss Oldcastle’s illness coming so close upon the joy 
of winning her ; or that I was more careless and less 
anxious to do my duty than I ought to have been — I 
greatly fear that Old Rogers must have been painfully 
disappointed in the sermons which I did preach for 
several of the following Sundays. He never even hinted 
at such a fact, but I felt it much myself. A man has 
often to be humbled through failure, especially after suc- 
cess. I do not clearly know how my failures worked 
upon me ; but I think a man may sometimes get spiritual 
good without being conscious of the point of its arrival, 
or being able to trace the process by which it was 
wrought in him. I believe that my failures did work 
•ome humility in me, and a certain carelessness of out- 
ward success even in spiritual matters, so far as the suo 


OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING. 


5^1 


ccss affected me, provided only the will of God was done 
in the dishonour of my weakness. And I think, but I 
am not sure, that soon after I approached this conditio* 
of mind, I began to preach better. But still I found for 
some time that however much the subject of my sermon 
interested me in my study or in the church or vestry on 
the Saturday evening ; nay, even although my heart was 
full of fervour during the prayers and lessons; no sooner 
had I begun to speak than the glow died out of the sky 
of my thoughts ; a dull clearness of the intellectual facul- 
ties took its place ; and I was painfully aware that what 
I could speak without being moved myself was not the 
most likely utterance to move the feelings of those who 
only listened. Still a man may occasionally be used by 
the Spirit of God as the inglorious “ trumpet of a pro- 
phecy” instead of being inspired with the life of the 
Word, and hence speaking out of a full heart in testi- 
mony of that which he hath known and seen. 

I hardly remember when or how I came upon the 
plan, but now, as often as I find myself in such a condi- 
tion, I turn away from any attempt to produce a ser- 
mon; and, taking up one of the sayings of our Lord 
which He himself has said “ are spirit and are life,” I 
labour simply to make the people see in it what I see 
in it ; and when I find that thus my own heart is warmed, 
I am justified in the hope that the hearts of some at 
least of my hearers are thereby warmed likewise. 

But no doubt the fact that the life of Miss Oldcastle 
seemed to tremble in the balance, had something to do 
with those results of which 1 may have already said too 


$64 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


much. My design had been to go at once to London 
and make preparation for as early a wedding as she 
would consent to ; but the very day after I brought hei 
home, life and not marriage was the question. Dr Dun- 
can looked very grave, and although he gave me all the 
encouragement he could, all his encouragement did not 
amount to much. There was such a lack of vitality 
about her ! The treatment to which she had been for 
so long a time subjected had depressed her till life was 
nearly quenched from lack of hope. Nor did the sud- 
den change seem able to restore the healthy action of 
what the old physicians called the animal spirits. Pos- 
sibly the strong reaction paralysed their channels, and 
thus prevented her gladness from reaching her physical 
nature so as to operate on its health. Her whole com- 
plaint appeared in excessive weakness. Finding that 
she fainted after every little excitement, I left her for 
four weeks entirely to my sister and Dr Duncan, during 
which time she never saw me ; and it was long before I 
could venture to stay in her room more than a minute 
or two. But as the summer approached she began to 
show signs of reviving life, and by the end of May was 
able to be wheeled into the garden in a chair. 

During her aunt’s illness, Judy came often to the 
vicarage. But Miss Oldcastle was unable to see her any 
mors than myself without the painful consequence which 
I have mentioned. So die dear child always came to 
me in the study, and through her endless vivacity in- 
fected me with some of her hope. For she had no feari 
whatever about her aunt’s recovery. 


OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING. 565 


I had had some painful apprehensions as to the tieat- 
ment Judy herself might meet with from her grand- 
mother, and had been doubtful whether I ought not to 
have carried her off as well as her aunt; but the first 
time she caine, which was the next day, she set my mind 
at rest on that subject. 

‘‘ But does your grannie know where you are cornel” 
I had asked her. 

“ So well, Mr Walton,” sne replied, “ that there was 
no occasion to tell her. Why shouldn’t I rebel as well 
as Aunt Wynnie, I wonder 1 ” she added, looking arch- 
ness itself. 

“ How does she bear it?” 

** Bear what, Mr Walton ? ” 

The loss of your aunt.” 

“You don’t think grannie cares about that, do you? 
She’s vexed enough at the loss of Captain Everard — 
Do you know, I think he had too much wine yesterday, 
or he wouldn’t have made quite such a fool of himself.” 

“ I fear he hadn’t had quite enough to give him cour- 
age, Judy. I daresay he was brave enough once, but a 
bad conscience soon destroys a man’s courage.” 

“Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr Walton? 
I should have thought that a bad conscience was one 
that would let a girl go on anyhow and say nothing 
about it to make her uncomfortable.” 

“ You are quite right, Judy ; that is the worst kind oi 
conscience, certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs Old 
castle bear it?” 

“ You asked me that already.” 


566 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


Somehow Judy’s words always seem more pert upon 
paper than they did upon her lips. Her ndivetk^ the 
twinkling light in her eyes, and the smile flitting about 
hei mouth, always modified greatly the expression of hei 
nrords. 

“ — Grannie never says a word about you or auntie 
either.” 

But you said she was vexed : how do you know 
that?” 

** Because ever since the captain went away this morn- 
ing, she won’t speak a word to Sarah even.” 

** Are you not afraid of her locking you up some day 
or other?” 

“ Not a bit of it Grannie won’t touch me. And you 
shouldn’t tempt me to run away from her like auntie. I 
won’t Grannie is a naughty old lady, and I don’t be- 
lieve anybody loves her but me — not Sarah, I ’m certain. 
Therefore I can’t leave her, and I won’t leave her, Mr 
Walton, whatever you may say about her.” 

“ Indeed, I don’t want you to leave her, Judy.” 

And Judy did not leave her as long as she lived. 
And the old lady’s love to that child was at least one 
redeeming point in her fierce character. No one can 
tell how mucn good it may have done her before she 
died — though but a few years passed before her soul was 
required of her. Before that time came, however, a 
quarrel took place between her and Sarah, which quarrel 
I incline to regard as a hopeful sign. And to this day 
Judy has never heard how her old grannie treated her 
mother. When she learns it now from these pages I 


OLD ROGERS’S THANKSGIVING. 




think she will be glad that she did not know it before 
her death. 

The old lady would see neither doctor nor parson 
nor would she hear of sending for her daughter. The 
only sign of softening that she gave was that once she 
folded her granddaughter in her arms and wept long and 
bitterly. Perhaps the thought of her dying child came 
back upon her, along with the reflection that the only 
friend she had was the child of that marriage which aha 
had persecuted to dissolution. 


CHAPTER XXXIV* 
tom’s story. 

reader will perceive that this part of ni) 
story is drawing to a close. It embraces 
but a brief period of my life, and I have 
plenty more behind not altogether unworthy 
of record. But the portions of any man’s life most 
generally interesting are those in which, while the out- 
ward history is most stirring, it derives its chief signifi- 
cance from accompanying conflict within. It is not the 
rapid change of events, or the unusual concourse of cir- 
cumstances that alone can ioterest the thoughtful mind ,* 
while, on the other hand, internal change and tumult 
can be ill set forth to the reader, save they be accom- 
panied and in part, at least, occasioned by outward 
events capable of embodying and elucidating the things 
thal are of themselves unseen. For man’s life ought to 
be a whole ; and not to mention the spiritual necessities 
of our nature — to ’eave the fart alone that a man is a 




tom's story. 




mere thing of shreds and patches until his heart is united, 
as the Psalmist says, to fear the name of God — to leave 
these considerations aside, I say, no man’s life is fit for 
representation as a work of art save in proportion as 
there has been a significant relation between his outer 
and inner life, a visible outcome of some sort of harmony 
between them. Therefore I chose the portion in which 
I had suffered most, and in which the outward occur- 
rences of my own life had been most interesting, for the 
fullest representation ; while I reserve for a more occa 
sional and fragmentary record many things in the way of 
experience, thought, observation, and facts in the history 
both of myself and individuals of my flock, which admit 
of, and indeed require, a more individual treatment than 
would be altogether suitable to a continuous story. But 
before I close this part of my communications with those 
whom I count my friends, for till they assure me of the 
contrary I mean to flatter myself with considering my 
readers generally as such, I must gather up the ends of 
my thread, and dispose them in such a manner that they 
shall neither hang too loose, nor yet refuse length enough 
for what my friend Rogers would call splicing. 

It was yet summer when Miss Oldcastle and I were 
married. It was to me a day awful in its gladness. She 
was now quite well, and no shadow hung upon her half- 
moon forehead. We went for a fortnight into Wales, 
and then returned to the vicarage and the duties of the 
parish, in which my wife was quite ready to assist me. 

Perhaps U would help the wives of some clergymen 
out of some difficulties, and be their protection against 


$yO AHNALS OF A QUIET NSIGHBOUEHOOIX 


some reproaches, if they would at once take the position 
with regard to the parishioners which Mrs Walton took, 
namely, that of their servant, but not in her own right 
—in her husband’s. She saw, and told them so, that 
the best thing she could do for them was to help me, 
that she held no office whatever in the parish, and they 
must apply to me when anything went amiss. Had she 
not constantly refused to be a “ judge or a divider,” she 
would have been constantly troubled with quarrels too 
paltry to be referred to me, and which were the sooner 
forgotten that the litigants were not drawn on further 
and further into the desert of dispute by the mirage of 
a justice that could quench no thirst. Only when any 
such affair, was brought before me, did she use her good 
offices to bring about a right feeling between the con- 
tending parties, generally next-door neighbours, and 
mostly women, who, being at home all day, found their 
rights clash in a manner that seldom happened with 
those that worked in the fields. Whatever her counsel 
could do, however, had full scope through me, who 
earnestly sought it. And whatever she gave the poor, 
she gave as a private person, out of her own pocket 
She never administered the communion offering — that 
is, after finding out, as she soon did, that it was a 
source of endless dispute between some of the recipi- 
ents, who regarded it as their common property, and 
were never satisfied with what they received. This is 
the case in many country parishes, I fear. As soon as 
I came to know it, I simply told the recipients that^ 
although the communion offering belonged to Uiein» 


tom’s stort. 


571 


yet the distribution of it rested entirely with me ; and 
that I would distribute it neither according to their 
fancied merits nor the degree of friendship I felt for 
them, but according to the best judgment I could form 
as to their necessities ; and if any of them thought these 
were underrated, they were quite at liberty to make a 
fresh representation of them to me; but that I, who 
knew more about their neighbours than it was likely 
they did, and was not prejudiced by the personal re- 
gards which they could hardly fail to be influenced by, 
was more likely than they were to arrive at an equitable 
distribution of the money — upon my principles if not 
on theirs. And at the same time I tried to show them 
that a very great part of the disputes in the world came 
from our having a very keen feeling of our own troubles, 
and a very dull feeling of our neighbour’s; for if the 
case was reversed, and our neighbour’s condition be- 
came ours, ten to one our judgment would be reversed 
likewise. And I think some of them got some sense 
out of what I said. But I ever found the great difficulty 
in my dealing with my people to be the preservation of 
th j authority which was needful for service ; for when 
the elder serve the younger — and in many cases it is 
not age that determines seniority — they must not forget 
that without which the service they offer will fail to be 
received as such by those to whom it is offered. At 
the same time they must ever take heed that their 
claim to authority be founded on the truth, and not on 
ecclesiastical or social position. Their standing in the 
church accredits their offer of service : the service itsell 


$7t ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


can only be accredited by the Truth and the Lord <A 
Truth, who is the servant of all. 

But it cost both me and my wife some time and some 
suffering before we learned how to deport ourselves in 
these respects. 

In the same manner she avoided the too near, because 
unprofitable, approaches of a portion of the richer part 
of the community. For from her probable position in 
time to come, rather than her position in time past, 
many of the fashionable people in the county began to 
call upon her — in no small degree to her annoyance, 
simply from the fact that she and they had so little in 
common. So, while she performed all towards them 
that etiquette demanded, she excused herself from the 
closer intimacy which some of them courted, on the 
ground of the many duties which naturally fell to the 
parson’s wife in a countiy parish like ours ; and I am 
sure that long before we had gained the footing we now 
have, we had begun to reap the benefits of this mode of 
regarding our duty in the parish as one, springing from 
the same source, and tending to the same end. The 
parson’s wife who takes to herself authority in virtue of 
her position, and the parson’s wife who disclaims all con- 
nexion with the professional work of her husband, are 
equally out of place in being parsons’ wives. The one 
who refuses to serve denies her greatest privilege ; the one 
who will be a mistress receives the greater condemnation. 
When the wife is one with her husband, and the husband 
is worthy, the position will soon reveal itself. 

Bui th, '• cannot be many clergymen’s wives amongst 


tom’s story. 


57J 


my readers ; and I may have occupied more space than 
reasonable with this “ large discourse.” I apologize, 
snd, there is room to fear, go on to do the same again. 

As I write I am seated in that little octagonal room 
overlooking the quarry, with its green lining of trees, 
and its deep central well. It is my study now. My 
wife is not yet too old to prefer the little room in which 
she thought and suffered so much, to every other, 
although the stair that leads to it is high and steep. 
Nor do I object to her preference because there is no 
ready way to reach it save through t.iis : I see her the 
oftener. And although I do not like any one to look 
over my shoulder while I write — it disconcerts me some- 
how — ^yet the moment the sheet is finished and flung on 
the heap, it is her property, as the print, reader, is yours. 
I hear her step overhead now. She is opening her win- 
dow. Now I hear her door close ; and now her foot is 
on the stair. 

“ Come in, love. I have just finished another sheet 
There it is. What shall I end the book with 1 What 
shall I tell the friends with whom I have been convers- 
ing so often and so long for the last thing ere for a little 
hile I bid them good-bye 1 ” 

And Ethelwyn bends her smooth forehead — for she 
has a smooth forehead still, although the hair that crowns 
it is almost white — over the last few sheets ; and while 
she reals, I will tell those who will lead, one of the 
good things that come of being married. It is, that 
there is one face upon which the changes come without 
your seeing them ; or rather, there is one face which you 


S74 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


can still see the same through all the shadows which 
years have gathered and heaped upon it No, stay ; I 
have got a better way of putting it still : there is or a 
face whose final beauty you can see the more clearly as 
the bloom of youth departs, and the loveliness of wisdoir 
and the beauty of holiness take its place ; for in it you 
behold all that you loved before, veiled, it is true, but 
glowing with gathered brilliance under the veil (“ Stop 
one moment, my dear”) from which it will one day 
shine out like the moon from under a cloud, when a 
stream of the upper air floats it from off her face. 

“ Now, Ethel wyn, I am ready. What shall I write 
about next 1 ” 

" I don’t think you have told them anywhere about 
Tom” 

** No more I have. I meant to do so. But I am 
ashamed of it.” 

“ The more reason to tell it” 

“ You are quite right I will go on with it at once. 
But you must not stand there behind me. When I was 
a child, I could always confess best when I hid my face 
with my hands.” 

“ Besides,” said Ethelwyn, without seeming to hear 
what 1 said, “ I do not want to have people saying that 
the vicar has made himself out so good that nobody 
can believe in him.” • 

That would be a great fault in my book, Ethelwyn. 
What does it come from in me ? Let me see. I do not 
think I want to appear better than I am ; but it sounds 
hypocritical to make merely general confessions, and it 


tom’s story. 


57 $ 


is indecorous to make particular ones. Besides, I doubt 
if it is good to write much about bad things even in the 
m,y of confession ” 

Well, wellv never mind justifying it,” said Ethelw)m. 
** / don’t want any justification. But here is a chance 
for you. The story will, I think, do good, and not harm. 
Vou had better tell it, I do think. So if you are inclined, 
I will go away at once, and let you go on without inter- 
ruption. You will have it finished before dinner, and 
Tom is coming, and you can tell him what you have 
done.” 

So, reader, now my wife has left me, I will begin. It 
shall not be a long story. 

As soon as my wife and I had settled down at home, 
and I had begun to arrange my work again, it came to 
my mind that for a long time I had been doing very 
little for Tom Weir. I could not blame myself much 
for this, and I was pretty sure neither he nor his father 
blamed me at all ; but I now saw that it was time we 
should recommence something definite in the way of 
study. When he came to my house the next morning, 
and I proceeded to acquaint myself with what he had 
been doing, I found to my great pleasure that he had 
made very considerable progress both in Latin and 
Mathematics, and I resolved that I would now push him 
a little. I found this only brought out his mettle; and 
his progress, as it seemed to me, was extraordinary. 
Nor was this all. There were such growing signs of 
goodness in addition to the uprightness which had first 
le<l to our acquaintance, that although I carefully al> 


$J6 AWNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUR'f OOO. 


Stained from making the suggestion to him, I was more 
than pleased when I discovered, from some remark he 
made, that he would gladly give himself to the service 
if the Church. At the same time I felt compelled to be 
the more cautious in anything I said, from the fact that 
the prospect of the social elevation which would be in 
volved in the change might be a temptation to him, as 
no doubt it has been to many a man of humble birth. 
However, as I continued to observe him closely, ray 
conviction was deepened that he was rarely fitted for 
ministering to his fellows ; and soon it came to speech 
between his father and me, when I found that Thomas, 
so far from being unfavourably inclined to the proposal, 
was prepared to spend the few savings of his careful life 
upon his education. To this, however, I could not lis- 
ten, because there was his daughter Mary, who was very 
delicate, and his grandchild too, for whom he ought to 
make what little provision he could. I therefore took 
the matter in my own hands, and by means of a judicious 
combination of experience and what money I could spare, 
I managed, at less expense than most parents suppose 
to be unavoidable, to maintain my young friend at Ox- 
ford till such time as he gained a fellowship. I felt jus- 
tified in doing so in part from the fact that some day or 
other Mrs Walton would inherit the Oldcastle property, 
as well as come into possession of certain moneys of 
her own, now in the tru^t of her mother and two gentle- 
men in London, which would be nearly sufficient to ftec 
the estate from incumbrance, although she could not 
touch it as long as her mother lived and chose to refiiat 


tom’s story. 


57 ? 


her the use of it, at least without a law-suit, with which 
neither of us was inclined to have anything to do. But 
I did not lose a penny by the affair. For of the very 
first money Tom received after he had got his fellowship, 
he brought the half to me, and continued to do so until 
he had repaid me every shilling I had spent upon him. 
As soon as he was in deacon’s orders, he came to assist 
me for a while as curate, and I found him a great help 
and comfort He occupied the large room over his 
father’s shop which had been his grandfather’s ; he had 
been dead for some years. 

I was now engaged on a work which I had been 
contemplating for a long time, upon the development 
of the love of Nature as shown in the earlier literature 
of the Jews and Greeks, through that of the Romans, 
Italians, and other nations, with the Anglo-Saxon for 
a fresh starting-point, into its latest forms in Gray, 
Thomson, Cowper, Crabbe, Wordsworth, Keats, and 
Tennyson; and Tom supplied me with much of the 
time which I bestowed upon this object, and I was 
really grateful to him. But, in looking back, and trying 
to account to myself for the snare into which I fell, I 
sec plainly enough that I thought too much of what T 
had done for Tom, and too little of the honour GoJ 
had done me in allowing me to help Tom. I took the 
high -dais-throne over him, not consciously, I believe, 
but still with a contemptible condescension, not of 
manner but of heart, so delicately refined by the innate 
sophistry of my selfishness, that the better nature in me 

called it only fatherly friendship, and did not recognize 

a o 


578 ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


it as that abominable thing so favoured of all tliose thai 
especially worship themselves. But I abuse my fault 
instead of confessing it. 

One evening, a gentle tap came to my door, and 
Tom entered. He looked pale and anxious, and there 
was an uncertainty about his motions which I could not 
understand. 

“ What is the matter, Tom ? ” I asked. 

“ I wanted to say something to you, sir,” answered 
Tom. 

** Say on,” I returned, cheerily. 

“ It is not so easy to say, sir,” rejoined Tom, with a 
faint smile. “ Miss Walton, sir >” 

** Well, what of her ? There ^s nothing happened to 
her ? She was here a few minutes ago — though, now I 
think of it 

Here a suspicion of the truth flashed on me, and 
struck me dumb. I am now covered with shame to 
think how, when the thing approached myself on that 
side, it swept away for the moment all my fine theorief 
about the equality of men in Christ their Head. How 
could Tom Weir, whose father was a joiner, who had 
been a lad in a London shop himself, dare to propose 
marrying my sister? Instead of thinking of what he 
really was, my regard rested upon this and that stage 
tniough which lie had passed to reach his present con- 
dition. In fact, I regarded him rather as of my making 
than of God^s. 

Perhaps it might do something to modify the scorn 
of all classes for those beneath them, to consider that, 


TOM'S STORY. 


5TQ 


bf regarding others thus, they justify those abov’C them 
in looking down upon them in their turn. In London 
shops, I am credibly informed, the young women who 
serve in the show-rooms, or behind the counters, are 
called ladies^ and talk of the girls who make up the 
articles for sale as persons. To the learned professions, 
however, the distinction between the shopwomen and 
milliners is, from their superior height, unrecognizable ; 
while doctors and lawyers are again, I doubt not, massed 
by countesses and other blue-blooded realities, with the 
litera,ry lions who roar at soiries and kettle-drums, or 
even with chiropodists and violin-players ! But I am 
growing scornful at scorn, and forget that I too have 
been scornful. Brothers, sisters, all good men and true 
women, let the Master seat us where He will. Until 
he says, “ Come up higher,” let us sit at the foot of the 
board, or stand behind, honoured in waiting upon His 
guests. All that kind of thing is worth nothing in the 
kingdom; and nothing will be remembered of us but 
the Master's judgment 

I have known a good church woman who would be 
sweet as a sister to the abject poou, but offensively 
condescending to a shopkeeper or a dissenter, exactly 
as if he was a Pariah, and she a Brahmin. I have 
xnowm good people who were noble and generous to- 
wards their so-called inferiors and full of the rights of 
the race — until it touched their own family, and just 
no longer. Yea I, who had talked like this for years. 
At once, when Tom Weir wanted to marry my sister, 
lost my faith in the broad lines of human distinctioiii 


5So ANNALS or A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


judged according to appearances in which I did no! 
even believe, and judged not righteous judgment 

“ For,” reasoned the world in me, “ is it not too bad 
to drag your wife in for such an alliance? Has she 
not lowered herself enough already? Has she not 
married far below her accredited position in society? 
Will she not feel injured by your family if she see it 
capable of forming such a connexion ? ” 

What answer I returned to Tom I hardly know. I 
remember that the poor fellow’s face fell, and that he 
murmured something which I did not heed. And then 
I found myself walking in the garden under the great 
cedar, having stepped out of the window almost uncon- 
sciously, and left Tom standing there alone. It was 
very good of him ever to forgive me. 

Wandering about in the garden, my wife saw me 
from her window, and met me as I turned a comer in 
the shrubbery. 

And now I am going to have my revenge upon her 
in a way she does not expect, for making me tell the 
story : I will tell her share in it. 

“ What is the matter with you, Henry ? ” she asked. 

** Oh, not much,” I answered. “ Only that Weir has 
been making me rather uncomfortable.” 

“What has he been doing?” she inquired, in some 
alarm. “ It is not possible he has done anything 
wrong.” 

My wife trusted him as much as I did. 

“ No — o — o,” I answered- “ Not anything exacU| 
wrong.” 


TOM'S STORY. 


581 


“ It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you 
look so miserable.” 

I began to feel ashamed and more uncomfortable. 

He has been falling in love with Martha,” I said ^ 
"and when I put one thing to another, I fear he may 
have made her fall in love with him too.” My wife 
laughed merrily. 

" Whal a wicked curate ! ” 

" Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable.” 
"WhyT 

" You know why weil enough.” 

" At least, I am not going to take it for granted. Ii 
be not a good manl” 

"Yes.” 

" Is he not a well-educated mant” 

" As well as myself— for his years.” 

" Is he not clever 1” 

" One of the cleverest fellows I ever met” 

" Is he not a gentleman ? ” 

" I have not a fault to find with his manners.” 

" Nor with his habits my wife went on. 

"No.” 

" Nor with his ways of thinking!” 

" No. — But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quits 
well. His family, you know.” 

" Well, is his father not a respectable man t ” 

" Ob, yesy i r tainly. Thoroughly respectable.” 

"He wouldi. ■ borrow money of his tailor instead oi 
paying for his cicrd;ies, would bet” 

" Certainly not” 


58a ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** And if he were to die to-day he wou!d carry no iebti 
to heaven with him ? ” 

" I bel'eve not.” 

" Does he bear false witness against his neighbour ? ” 

“ No. He scorns a lie as much as any man I evei 
knew.** 

“ Which of the commandments is it in particular that 
he breaks, then 1 ** 

None that I know of ; excepting that no one can 
keep them yet that is only human. He tries to keep 
every one of them I do believe.’* 

** Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a 
father. I wish my mother had been as good.** 

** That is all true, and yet ^** 

“ And yet, suppose a young man you liked had had a 
fashionable father who had ruined half a score of trades 
people by his extravagance — would you object to hirr 
because of his family 1 ** 

“ Perhaps not” 

"Then, with you, position outweighs honesty — in 
fathers, at least*’ 

To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife 
went on. 

" It might be reasonable if you did though, from feai 
lest he should turn out like his father. — But do you know 
why I would not accept your offer of taking my name 
when I should succeed to the property 1 ” 

" You said you liked mine better,” I answered. 

" So I did. But I did not tell you that I was ashamed 
that my good husband should take a name wl ich for 


Tan*! STOKT. 


58J 


centuries had been borne by hard-hearted, worldly 
minded people, who, to speak the truth of my ancestors 
to my husband, were neither gentle noi honest, nor 
high-minded.” 

Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it, 
though it is not so easy to say what And you avoid that. 
I suppose Martha has been talking you over to her side.” 

“ Harry,” my wife said, with a shade of solemnity, I 
am almost ashamed of you for the first time. And I will 
punish you by telling you the truth. Do you think I 
had nothing of that sort to get over when I began to 
find that I was thinking a little more about you than was 
quite convenient under the circumstances ? Your man- 
ners, dear Harry, though irreproachable, just had not the 
tone that I had been accustomed to. There was a diffi- 
dence about you also that did not at first advance you 
in my regard.” 

“ Yes, yes,” I answered, a little piqued, “ I dare say. 
I have no doubt you thought me a boor.” 

** Dear Harry ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon, wifie. I know you didn’t. But 
it is quite bad enough to have brought you down to my 
level, without sinking you still lower.” 

“ Now there you are wrong, Harry. And that is what 
I want to show you. I found that my love to you would 
not be satisfied with making an exception in your favour. 
I must see what force there really was in the notions I 
bad been bred in.” 

“ Ah ! ” I said. ‘‘ I see. You looked for a principle 
in whit you had thought was an exception.” 


584 ANNALS OP A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


** Yes/* returned my wife ; “ and I soon found one 
A.nd the next step was to throw away all false judgment 
in regard to such things. And so I can see more clearly 
than you into the right of the matter. — Would you hesi 
tate a moment between Tom Weir and the dissolute son 
of an earl, Harry ? ** 

“ You know I would not.” 

‘‘ Well, just carry out the considerations that suggests, 
and you will find that where there is everything per- 
sonally noble, pure, simple, and good, the lowliness of a 
man’s birth is but an added honour to him ; for it shows 
that his nobility is altogether from within him, and 
therefore is his own. It cannot then have been put on 
him by education or imitation, as many men’s manners 
are, who wear their good breeding like their fine clothes, 
or as the Pharisee his prayers, to be seen of men.” 

“ But his sister?” 

“Harry, Harry! You were preaching last Sunday 
about the way God thinks of things. And you said that 
was the only true way of thinking about them. Would 
the Mary that poured the ointment on Jesus’s head have 
refused to marry a good man because he was the brother 
of that Mary who poured it on His feet 1 Have you 
thought what God would think of Tom for a husband to 
Martha?” 

I did not answer, for conscience had begun to speak. 
When I lifted my eyes from the ground, thinking Ethel 
wyn stood beside me, she was gone. I fidt as if she 
were dead, to punish me for my pride. But ?till I could 
mot get over it, though I was ashamed V follow and 


tomJs stoet. 


SS5 


find her. I went and got my hat instead, and strolled 
out 

What was it that drew me towards Thomas Weir’s 
shop ? I think it must have been incipient repentance 
—a feeling that I had wronged the man. But just as I 
turned the comer, and the smell of the wood reached 
me, the picture so often associated in my mind with such 
a scene of human labour, rose before me. I saw the 
Lord of Life bending over His bench, fashioning some 
lowly utensil for some housewife of Nazareth. And He 
would receive payment for it too ; for He at least could 
see no disgrace in the order of things that His Father 
had appointed It is the vulgar mind that looks down 
on the earning and worships the inheriting of money. 
How infinitely more poetic is the belief that our Lord 
did His work like any other honest man, than that strain- 
ing after His glorification in the early centuries of the 
Church by the invention of fables even to the disgrace 
of his father ! They say that Joseph was a bad carpen- 
ter, and our Lord had to work miracles to set the things 
right which he had made wrong ! To such a class of 
mind as invented these fables do those belong who think 
they honour our Lord when they judge anything human 
too common or too unclean for Him to have done. 

And the thought spmng up at once in my mind — ** If 
I ever see our Lord face to face, how shall I feel L* He 
says to me; * Didst thou do well to murmur that thy 
sister espoused a certain man for thut in his youth he 
had earned his bread as I earned mine! Where waf 
then thy right to say unto me. Lord, Loidf”* 


586 ANNALS OF A QVIXT NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I hurried into the workshop. 

** Has Tom told you about iti ” I said. 

“Yes, sir. And I told him to mind what he was 
about ; for he was not a gentleman, and you was, sir.” 

“ I hope I am. And Tom is as much a gentleman as 
I have any claim to be.” 

Thomas Weir held out his hand. 

“ Now, sir, I do believe you mean in my shop what 
you say in your pulpit ; and there is one Christian in the 
world at least. — But what will your good lady say 1 She ’s 
higher-born than you — no offence, sir.” 

“ Ah, Thomas, you shame me. lam not so good as 
you think me. It was my wife that brought me to reason 
about it.” 

“ God bless her.” 

“ Amen. I ’m going to find Tom.” 

At the same moment Tom entered the shop, with a 
very melancholy face. He started when he saw me, and 
looked confused. 

“ Tom, my boy,” I said, “ I behaved very badly to 
you. I am sorry for it. Come back with me, and have 
a walk with my sister. I don’t think she ’ll be sorry to 
see you.” 

His face brightened up at once, and we left the shop 
together. Evidently with a great effort Tom was the 
first to speak. 

“ I know, sir, how many difficulties my presumption 
must put you in.” 

“ Not another word about it, Tom. You are blame^ 
less. I wish I were. If we only act as God would have 


TOM*S STORY. 


581 


us, other considerations may look after themselves — or, 
rather, He will look after them. The world will never 
be right till the mind of God is the measure of things, 
and the will of God the law of things. In the kingdom 
of Heaven nothing else is acknowledged. And till that 
kingdom come, the mind and will of God must, with 
those that look for that kingdom, over-ride every other 
way of thinking, feeling, and judging. I see it more 
plainly than ever I did. Take my sister, in God’s name, 
Tom, and be good to her.” 

Tom went to find Martha, and I to find Ethelwyn. 

“ It is all right,” I said, “ even to the shame I feel at 
having needed your reproof.” 

“ Don’t think of that God gives us all time to come 
to our right minds, you know,’* answered my wife. 

But how did you get on so far a-head of me, wifie 1 ** 

Ethelwyn laughed. 

“ Why,” she said, “ I only told you back again what 
you have been telling me for the last seven or eight 
years.” 

So to me the message had come first, but my wife had 
answered first with the deed. 

And now I have had my revenge on her. 

Next to her and my children, Tom has been my great- 
est comfort for many years. He is still my curate, and 
I do not think we shall part till death part us for a time. 
My sister is worth twice what she was before, though 
they have no children. We have many, and they have 
taught me much. 

Thomas Weir is now too old to work any longer. He 


$89 ANNALS OF A QUIBT NBIGHBO JBHOOD. 


occupies his father^s chair in the large room of the old 
house. The workshop I have had turned into a school- 
room, of the external condition of which his daughter 
takes good care, while a great part of her brother Tom’s 
time is devoted to the children ; for he and I agree that, 
where it can be done, the pastoral care ought to be at 
least equally divided between the sheep and the lambs. 
For the sooner the children are brought under right in- 
fluences — I do not mean a great deal of religious speech, 
but the right influences of truth and honesty, and an evi- 
dent regard to what God wants of us — not only are they 
the more easily wrought upon, but the sooner do they 
recognize those influences as right and good. And 
while Tom quite agrees with me that there must not be 
much talk about religion, he thinks that there must be 
just the more acting upon religion; and that if it be 
everywhere at hand in all things taught and done, it win 
be ready to show itself to every one who looks for ii. 
And besides that action is more powerful than speech 
in the inculcation of religion, Tom says there is no such 
corrective of sectarianism of every kind as the repression 
of speech and the encouragement of action. 

Besides being a great help to me and everybody else 
almost in Marshmallows, Tom has distinguished himself 
in the literary world ; and when I read his books I am 
yet prouder of my brother-in-law. I am only afraid that 
Martha is not good enough for him. But she certainly 
improves, as I have said already. 

Jane Rogers was married to young Brownrigg about a 
year after we were married. The old man is all but 


tom's story. 


581 


confined to the chimney-corner now, and Richard man 
ages the farm, though not quite to his father^s satisfac- 
tion, of course. But they are doing well notwithstand- 
ing. The old mill has been superseded by one of new 
and rare device, built by Richard ; but the old cottage 
where his wife’s parents lived lias slowly mouldered back 
to the dust 

For the old people have been dead for many years. 
Often in the summer days as I go to or come from the 
vestry, I sit down for a moment on the turf that covers 
my old fiiend, and think that every day is mouldering 
away this body of mine till it shall fall a heap of dust 
into its appointed place. But what is that to me t It is 
to me the drawing nigh of the fresh morning of life, 
when I shall be young and strong again, glad in the 
presence of the wise and beloved dead, and unspeakably 
glad in the presence of my God, which I have now but 
hope to possess far more hereafter. 

I will not take a solemn leave of my friends iust yet 
For I hope to hold a little more communion with them 
ere I go hence. I know that my mental faculty is grow- 
ing weaker, but some power yet remains ; and I say to 
myself; “ Perhaps this is the final trial of your faith — to 
trust in God to take care of your intellect for you, and 
to believe, in weakness, the truths He revealed to you 
in strength. Remember that Truth depends not upon 
your seeing it, and believe as you saw when your sight 
was at its best For then you saw that the Truth was 
beyond all you could see.” Thus I tiy to prepare for 


590 ANNALS OF A QUllT NBIOKBOUS lOOD. 


dark days that may come, but which cannot come with 
out God in them. 

And meantime I hope to be able to communicate 
some more of the good things experience and thought 
have taught me, and it may be some more of the events 
that have befallen my friends and myself in our pilgrim> 
age. So, kind readers, God be with you. That is thi 
older and better form of Goodbye, 


. ^ ♦ 

I 




r 






« 


Jf 








t 

* 




% 




I 


t 

4 


■.W f'^.Vi''' 

} '• :■•• . 

¥ 

• . ♦ . 

4 * ^ 

• • •■ * 

Ik 

« 

A 

■» 

T 







I ' 


I 






I 

* 

« 




> 





» 





% 


. * 


9 


4 


% 




t 


t 




t 



• -• 


i 


« 






1 


j 




»• 


» 




« 







• 4 


» 




3 

• * t 



t 


t 


• • « 



4 







^ r 


>4 








» 


« 


. * \t 



» 


k 


I 




A 


I * 


♦ 



V 


4 

I « 



rr 

•I • 


V. 


i 










» 




I 


4 




I 



t 

% 


« 





I 


. I 


?■ * 


•t 


ff 

4 


I 


» 




I 


•| 


\ ^ 


4 


\ 

0 


' r 



. » 


• I 


1 

^ « 


i. 


t 



\ 


t 


I 


( 

I 





t 



f 



* 

' fr V ■ ■ 

11 ^ I 







- 9 











\ 







4 • 


i 







w 


* 




% 


t 


« 


» 


♦ 


• I 

» 


I 


4 


1 



* 


» 


^ 


» 

« 1 


• I 

» 


I 


« 







t 


I 




t 

I 

t 


I 


4 


* 


I 

4 




< 



t 


4 




♦ 



I 



« 

A 


•» 




• * 

* I 

« ■ ^ 






^ ‘ 


< 





t i 




*» 

% 



I 


» 


t 


i 





t 

* 



’ , ," I lO*- 

, 





% 


% 




« 


I 


4 


4 > 


» • 


4 




« 


I 


« « 


r I 




4 


4 


■ 


» 


4 


\ 


* 


K 


4 


» 


^ . 




. 4 


1 



f 



>4 


I 


t 


• • 



£ 




